A Different World
by coffeewriter1
Summary: "The Last Battle done, but the world not done with battle." What happens when Perrin and Faile find themselves in a strange world, one that seems to mirror their own? Will they find their way home, or stay and fight? (Rated T for violence. No slash)
1. Chapter 1

Introductory Notes:

As a new member of the FanFiction community, it is a pleasure to read the visions of so many people's imaginations. However, I saw a lack. Though there are good LOTR and X-men crossovers, good LOTR and Avengers crossovers, and even good LOTR and Star Wars crossovers, I saw nothing good that combined LOTR and my other favorite series, the Wheel of Time. It is to remedy this lack that I write this story.

There is a reason I pick the characters I do, as will be seen later on. I am not perfect, and in many ways I am going off my imagination and memory. Leigh Butler's excellent reread of WoT on and my own study of Tolkien and his world did help me get a handle on the characters, but in some ways, I am still shooting in the dark, and am relying on other fans to correct any possible errors.

My world is the bookverse. I believe it is richer, and Tolkien's dialogue has no equal. So I apologize if you do not see your favorite movie scenes. You will just have to get over it. However, I will likely use some of the movie dialogue, as I love the wittiness of some of the characters. The time is about a year after Tarmon Gaidon in the WoT world and just before the Council of Elrond in LOTR.

Finally, thanks to Telcontar for his excellent story Its A Strange Coincidence and Dr Matthattan for his Avengers of the Ring series. If they can take on such projects, so can I.


	2. Chapter 2- Introductions

Perrin sat with his wife at their manor in the Two Rivers. After the Last Battle, they had taken up residence in Saldaea, taking up the Broken Crown and rebuilding the shattered country. However, they often traveled away to the Two Rivers and Emond's Field to recover and refresh themselves. Far away from court politics and factions, it was a chance to simply be husband and wife.

After an appeal to Elayne, Tam had been made Lord of the Two Rivers, but the legend of Perrin Goldeneyes never seemed to die out. Light, even the Women's Council tread lightly around him. The wolf dream was the only place where he seemed to be equal and complete, though he had not been there in some time.

He had torn himself away to work in the forge, shaping some ornamental scrollwork to take back to Saldaea with him. Faile always smelled scandalized and pleased by turns whenever he came in smelling of smoke. Scandalized, because kings did not work with metal, and pleased because he was doing the work for her and not Berelain. Though Faile and Berelain got along, Perrin always dreaded when the First visited. Even if outwardly, all was calm, Perrin could still smell the tension, like two cats about to fight. He tended to disappear whenever those two were in the same room together, to Faile's chagrin.

"Is Lord Tam coming soon?" Faile asked for what seemed to be the hundredth time. Her eyes were raised. After all, the food was ready. Perrin could smell the meat, and his eyes glowed yellow. Just because he no longer ran with the wolves did not mean he wasn't part wolf inside. Faile, at least, said he always ate like one.

"I'm sure all is well. He was checking on farms out in the Westwood and was probably delayed by some goodman. It's not like him to be late, but I am sure that is all it is." After the war, the Two Rivers had been scoured. No Shadowspawn had been found, and Perrin took security in that.

"Neither of you act like lords," Faile said. "A feast, and no one to share it with. You even put on your best coat." She brushed at the dark blue wool absently as a servant announced the food was ready. Perrin smiled as the door banged open.

Tam would always be a soldier. Being ennobled had not seemed to change him, at least on the outside. His brown hair, graying at the temples, was cut short, and his plain brown coat showed no ornament or embroidery. He gave Perrin a hug and put an arm around Faile. "I apologize for my lateness," he said. "A farmer needed help unloading his cart of cider. I moved some of the barrels into Bran's cellar. After all, Bel Tine will be here soon."

Perrin smiled and moved toward the dining hall. Even though it was only the three of them, Sea Folk pottery and silver goblets decorated the long, plain farm table. They had just sat down and taken their first bites of food when the door opened once more.

"Come look," Jur Grady said. The Asha'man had stayed as an advisor of sorts, though he could have gone back to the Black Tower. Normally, the stolid farmer was not given to excitement, but he smelled...nervous. Perrin got up,grabbing Mall'ei'ner as he did so, sensing there might be trouble at last, and Faile and Tam followed.

"Burn me!" Perrin whispered. He didn't talk like Mat, but it just slipped out. The former blacksmith had seen plenty of storms, but none like this. Lightning hung in the air, snapping and crackling, in every color of the rainbow, but there was no smell of rain. Instead, to Perrin, it smelled like fire and danger.

Perrin looked at Grady, wondering if it was the Power. Rogue Asha'man still roamed, despite Logain's extradition order and the efforts of the Red Ajah. The farmer shook his head. "Whatever power it may be, it is not saidin. I have never felt anything like it."

Tam put his hand on Mat and Faile's shoulders. "Best go inside," he started to say, when suddenly the manor house, the Two Rivers, and the storm faded away, A tall wall of mountains, looking much like the Mountains of Mist, rose frowning to their right, and cold wind blew. Faile shivered, and Perrin took off his coat and wrapped it around her.

"Where are we, blacksmith?" she demanded.

"Did you hear what I heard?" Merry asked anxiously. The halfling looked around, and the rest of the Company pricked up their ears. Strider, standing next to Frodo, put a hand on his hilt, but Glorfindel held up a calming hand.

"Le hannon, we are on the borders of Elrond's country. No evil thing can enter here. Continue riding with Frodo. I will see who these other travelers might be." He turned aside, running to the south. The voices were close, behind an outcropping of rocks, and he soon saw them. It looked like a husband and wife, though they were dressed in no clothes he recognized. Perhaps they were royalty, invited to the council, though he sensed confusion in the man, and prickling worry and anger in the woman.

Spies, perhaps? Well, spies or not, they could do no harm here. He drew his weapons and strode forward, and the man instantly held out the hammer he carried, while metal flashed in the woman's hands.

"Who are you?" he asked. "What is your business here, strangers?"

The man did not lower the hammer. In his eyes was confusion, not rage, the reaction of a warrior in a place not his own. "I do not know," he said slowly. "I do not know where I am, and your race is one I do not know."

Now Glorfindel was taken aback. The man was a fighter, a warrior by his stance, despite his bulk. But he had not heard of the elves? All men, even those sworn to evil, knew of the fair folk. They had to be spies. He whistled quickly, knowing that a host of elves would soon come. In the meantime, he would keep them talking.

"You are a stranger here, and we are in a position of war. Lower your weapons."

The wife started forward, but the husband put a gentle hand on her arm. "He is right," he said quietly. "We are the strangers here, wherever here is." He lowered his hammer, and the wife put away her daggers.

"Let us start again," he said. "My name is Perrin, and this is my wife, Faile. Can you tell us where we are?"

If they were spies, they already knew where they were. Glorfindel saw no harm in speaking. "You are near the valley of Rivendell, where my lord sits. I will bring you before him, as soon as the rest of my company arrives."

Good. He could feel them approaching. "Until we can resolve this mystery, we will have to bind you. Please, give up your weapons."

Again, the wife looked shocked. "We are royal-" she started to say, but her husband quickly put a hand over her mouth. He did not look happy, but he spoke no word as the company approached. No man could be a challenge for the elves. Even two could not stand against twenty.

The husband quietly put down his hammer, and Faile quickly made a small pile of steel. Glorfindel's eyes rose. Here was a true shieldmaiden, willing to fight at her husband's side. And the fiercer one of the two, by what he already saw. If he was the bear, she was the leopard.

"I wish we could give you more welcome," he said as he tied their bonds. "But all is suspicion. Please, I am sure you will soon be released." He reached for the hammer and suddenly drew back. "There are enchantments on this hammer," he said. "Who…"

"When we come before your lord, we will explain all." Perrin's voice was deep and commanding, and Glorfindel felt sudden respect. "The hammer is safe. It will not harm you."

Carefully, he picked it up. He knew, had seen forged, the fabled blades of the Noldor. Here was a weapon like, crackling with power in the unseen realm. And it was heavy! Most hammers, even of the dwarves, were light. This had to weigh fifteen pounds or more. He was strong enough for it, but he thought of this Perrin swinging it for hour after hour and marveled.

If they were true…there was a story waiting to be told. And perhaps warriors that would serve them.

Perrin was not happy, but he knew a company of elite soldiers when he saw one. The..no, it was no man. He did not know what it was. But this creature was taking no chances on his lord's lands. He understood full well how he would feel should strangers appear in Maradon, and quietly submitted, biding his time.

Faile was outraged, but she would follow his lead. The prickly smell of rage faded into acceptance as she unveiled her weapons. She was dangerous enough without them, but against twenty? No. The bonds were not tight, but…

So these creatures knew of enchanted weapons? He wracked his brain, hoping not to make a mistake. Could they be like the Finns who lived in the Tower of Ghenjei, or…in his world, only men and the Ogier lived. He did not think that a Shadowspawn would be so polite. It was a mystery.

Now they marched quickly, the leader of this band setting a hard pace, heading toward the mountains. The chatter of a river behind them faded, and they climbed up toward the top of a rise. There was a feel of wariness, yes, but also a feel of home. The same feeling he felt when he was around Faile permeated the very air.

And then they started descending, and his breath caught. He had seen many cities. The hard lines of Fal Dara, the graceful spires of Caemlyn, and the grandeur of Tar Valon. The walls and gates of Maradon, and the simplicity of the Two Rivers towns. But this…this..

He had no words. This city, if a city it could be, seemed to grow from the very mountains, a collection of houses and homes, with a larger home in the center. The whole air was peaceful, peaceful as not even the steddings were, and he was sure this was no Shadowspawn village. But…but where was he? It had to be a dream, and he would soon wake up.

Faile thought she had to be dreaming, too. She held Perrin's calloused hand as they descended. Fair voices rose up to meet them, singing in a beautiful language she did not know. She had heard Loial sing, but nothing like this. It woke something peaceful and quiet in her.

She hesitated as they approached the largest dwelling, but there was no need. The creature had thrown open the doors, and they and their guard entered in. .

This was no fortress, like her father's manor in Maradon. This was a true house. Hangings were everywhere, showing scenes of battle and war, as well as scenes of peace. She passed a large open hall, empty but for a statue on a pedestel, a king stern and bearded, hands outstretched in warning. On the pedestal was a cloth, and on the cloth, pieces of what looked like a broken sword. But she had no time to look further. They had arrived at a door, and she entered into a spacious waiting room, with windows facing toward the other side of the valley and the high mountains. There were couches, and Faile sat thankfully.

"My lord is tending an important matter, and I must join him," Glorfindel said. "The guards will be outside the door, and one will bring refreshments while you wait." Bowing gracefully, he shut the door behind him.

Perrin took her hand. "Do you wish you had some of Cha Faile here?" he asked, smiling, his eyes teasing. "They'd soon have every secret laid bare."

Faile smiled back, though she still felt irritation and knew her husband also felt it. At the same time, she knew the strange creature showed respect for both of them. His look when he had picked up her husband's hammer had revealed much to her. "No, husband. If we are in another world, it is better to wait." She still heard the singing, though fainter. "We would not understand. These people have their own language, though they know the tongues of men."

She had no sooner spoken than the door opened and a lady came in. She was a little shorter than the warrior, and younger, dressed in white, with dark hair braided to her waist. She carried a tray with a pitcher and simple silver goblets. Two more came in, bearing basins of hot and cold water, and cloths for faces and hands. They quickly set everything on a corner table and withdrew.

She nodded at Perrin, and he got up, bringing goblets for himself and her. It smelled like spiced wine, and she took a sip. It was wine fit for a king. Perrin was admiring the craftmanship.

"It looks plain from a distance," he said. "But look." He showed the goblet to Faile. She looked and caught her breath. Around the base was a delicate pattern, etched into the silver, a swirl that was simple and beautiful all in one.

"It's a king's cup," she said. "I have never seen its equal. It seems they respect us, even while they keep us under guard. I think that they may be able to read us and who we are."

"An enchanted hammer, and the clothes of royalty," Perrin said. "We are obvious. But we are still a danger, and they wish to know more."

"Then we will share, when we are called before this lord," Faile said, taking a cloth to wipe her face and looking out over the mountains. "It looks like a mirror of our world, but it cannot be, for such creatures we do not know. I am curious, husband, as to what has happened to us."

Perrin put an arm around his wife's shoulders. "All will be explained in time," he said. "Let me do the talking, Faile. It is my duty as a king,"

Faile gave a flat look, but said nothing. She smelled of irritation once more, but he knew she would obey. And so the strange warrior found them, arms around each other, looking toward the high peaks.

"My lord Elrond will see you now," he said.

The small hall the strange creature led them to did not look like the hall of a king or even a lord, but that of a scholar. It was packed with shelves, and those shelves were full of scrolls. But the shelves were not what dominated the room. Even if Perrin had not seen the simple silver band on Elrond's brow, he would have known he was a lord. Power and authority radiated from him, and Perrin found himself dipping his head.

"Lord Elrond, myself and my wife," he said simply.

Elrond smiled. At that moment, Perrin saw someone else step out of the shadows. This man was tall, nearly the height of an Aielman, with a gray beard and piercing eyes. He carried a long staff, and for a moment, Perrin thought the impossible- that he had met a male Aes Sedai. Curiosity was strongest in both of them, and a sense of wariness. If this Lord Elrond was a scholar, he would be curious about what he did not know. And this man…

"I see a prince and a princess, or perhaps a king and queen," Elrond said. "You," he pointed to Perrin, "carry an enchanted weapon, like the weapons of our greatest smiths, while you," he pointed to Faile, "are a fighter without compare. There are many mysteries in this world, but I know all the royalty from the Gulf of Lune to the Lonely Mountain far in the East. I can place neither of you. Perhaps my other guest can. Mithrandir?"

The man named Mithrandir turned his eyes on him, and he felt naked. Those eyes weighed and measured, but they were also kind, unlike the often angry faces of the Aes Sedai. "From a time far in the future they come," he said. "They are bound with the Quest, or will be."

"Do you speak truly, Gandalf?" Elrond asked sharply, and Perrin was reminded of a sword sliding from its scabbard. If this was a scholar, he was a scholar who knew how to fight. He smelled of fury now. "Such a thing is not thought to be possible, even in the height of the Noldor's power."

"By my wisdom from Valinor, I speak true," Gandalf said. Now his own eyes flashed.

Perrin took another look at the man named Mithrandir and Gandalf. He left aside the question of Valinor, and instead looked at his face. He heard Faile shifting behind him, wanting to speak, but instead held up a hand. Gandalf's eyes were deep, and he suddenly realized the wanderer was old. Cadsuane was the oldest human he had met, but Gandalf was far older. He made a note to talk to him later.

"The warrior who brought us said you were in a posture of war. We offer our weapons if you need."

Elrond nodded. "I do not know all of your story, but I believe you are no threat. I take Mithrandir's council, and will release you from being watched. We eat at the setting of the sun. Ask any elf, and they will direct you." The warrior who had first met them poked in his head. "Glorfindel, return to these guests their weapons. I have met them, and consider them no threat."

Glorfindel said nothing, but bowed and motioned for them to follow.

Elrond was surprised when he heard the knock. It was growing late. The strangers had come to the meal, but said little, simply enjoying the food and wine. He had missed part of it, too, taking the splinter of the Morgul-blade out of Frodo. He was weary with all that was portended, and wished to sleep.

"Come," he said, more sharply than his wont.

Erestor poked in his head. "It is the strangers. They wish to tell their story."

Elrond's mind cleared at once. "We will meet in the Little Hall. Bring water and wine for the guests. Have Glorfindel and Gandalf come, and my two sons. Aragorn, as well."

Soon everyone was assembled. Elrond noticed how watchful Perrin was, constantly scanning the room, while Faile watched him. Not to follow, he thought, but to defend him if he needed it. His movements were slow and careful, and Elrond read a life of watchfulness in him, while Faile was far quicker, and her eyes were far more expressive, flashing through moods almost too fast to follow. As he expected, Perrin took the lead.

"Lord Elrond, I believe we are in a different world than our own. You call yourself elves. I have never met such people in all my travels, and I have traveled over most of my world. Faile is a nobleman's daughter, now a queen, and well educated, and she knows nothing of you, either. How we came to be here, I do not know, but that it was the will of the Pattern."

Elrond had heard of such chances of fate, and wondered if perhaps the Valar had lent a hand in Middle-Earth's hour of need. But that there were other worlds rocked him. He had always thought that the One had created only Arda, but perhaps there were other worlds beyond the stars.

"I believe you are correct," Mithrandir said. "I spent the afternoon searching the records of Rivendell, and my own memory, and I have no knowledge of these names. They are not names used even in the South, where the stars are strange. Aragorn, you are well-traveled as well."

His foster son spoke. "I also believe so. Come, tell me your story, and of your world, and let us see if we may help you."

Perrin turned to his wife. "Faile, you know the history of our world better than I. If you will begin with the background, I will tell our story, as far as I know it."

Faile's voice was high and clear, and her speech, though accented, was easy to follow. She spoke first of the nations of her world, and how they were aligned, and of the different governments that existed. Elrond soon learned Perrin and her were king and queen of a nation named Saldaea, far in the north of their world. She also told of the Aes Sedai, wizards and scholars of high repute, and some of the history, starting with the War of the Power.

Elrond shivered. He knew of Saruman, of course, but to think of thirteen such individuals swearing allegience to the Dark was almost more than he could hear. He heard of the long war between the light and darkness, and how it had ended.

Gandalf paused her. "So the male half of this power was tainted. How would I then be treated?" The question seemed innocent, but Elrond knew his old friend was probing deeply.

Faile sighed. "Before the coming of the Dragon Reborn, you would have been hunted like an animal, and your power would be stripped away from you, bound so that it could never again be used. Then, your name would be published from the Aiel Waste to the Sea of Storms, so that it would never be forgotten."

"Now, however, the taint is no more. It was the greatest gift the Dragon gave us, for now men and women once more work together in the Power. We ourselves have an advisor who is an Asha'man, or Guardian." Perrin sounded proud, as well he should. For one man to undo what a spirit had done was a feat that would be placed next to Fingolfin and Beren and Earendil himself.

"Yes, tell me of the Dragon," Elrond said. "You almost sound as though you know him."

"He was my childhood friend," Perrin said. Taking up the story, he told of Rand Al'Thor and all he had done, from his birth on Dargonmount, to his childhood in the Two Rivers, to that fateful Winternight, and on through his proclamation, the Black Tower, the Cleansing, and the final battle where the Dark One was at last sealed away.

Elrond was speechless. "So this spirit, this dark force, is no more?" Erestor finally asked.

Perrin paused and spoke slowly, as though he did not quite understand himself. "It is said by an Aes Sedai I know that…there can be no light without dark. In my world, at least, light and dark is the weave of the Pattern. To take the Dark One away completely is to take away our power to choose. But his influence is gone on the world, and any evil that remains is what we ourselves make. Perhaps it is different in your world."

Elrond spoke slowly. It was diffferent, but also the same. "Our first Dark Lord, Morgoth, the Black Enemy, marred the design of the Creator, and introduced into the Song of Creation themes of his own design. Through the world now runs a thread of evil that can never fully be undone. Yet…it is said that at the end of days, the world will be broken, and all will be made right."

"It seems as though our worlds are mirrors," Perrin said. "I wonder if it is possible to get home. Our people will need us."

"If a way can be found, it will be," Mithrandir said.

"If I understand rightly, you grew up a blacksmith, but now you are a king." Aragorn spoke slowly. "We know now your world. What is your story?"

Faile laughed, breaking the tension. "It is a strange story," she said. "The Pattern wove us together." She spoke her side, and then Perrin spoke his. Elrond was amused at the strange weaving, but also felt the gravity of their situation.

"We will search for a way to get you home," he said. "Though it seems as though the Song is not done with you yet." He clarified. "What you call the Pattern."

"It seems so, though how it was done, we do not know. There is but one way to travel between worlds, it seems, and that is by the Portal Stones." Briefly Perrin explained how they were used, and Elrond blinked. Such strange artifacts…suddenly, a though occurred to him. Silently, he kept it to himself. He did not know if he was right. Not yet.

"Until we can return home, we offer you our weapons." This was from Faile. "We do not know this world yet, but we are willing to serve where we are."

 **A/N: In this rewrite, I have removed many of the characters from the story, and have focused on just two. Of all the Wheel of Time characters, Perrin and Faile are my favorite. I take some issues with their bang-bang kiss-kiss dynamic, but I really do think they try and do well by each other, and they do fit each other quite well.**

 **I know there was a LOT of talking in the chapter, but it is important to establish the background. The action will begin to pick up when it comes time for the Council of Elrond.**


	3. Chapter 3- Council of War

Chapter 2- Council of War

Perrin sat, perched on a rock high above the valley of Rivendell, thinking. The elves were a clever and wise race, filled with humor and light. Elrond, Glorfindel and Erestor were a trio of leaders, sober and serious, but the other elves often acted like children. Once word started spreading that he and Faile were married, it became a game to find the best hiding spots for a kiss or more.

Faile played along, of course. She always seemed to be thinking of farmgirls at harvest, and Perrin was often tired even before he hit his pillows at night.

That didn't mean that Faile was always lighthearted. Even her laughter had a probing edge, and he thought that the elves sometimes revealed more than they intended. In any case, they had the run of Rivendell from the first night. Faile was always talking to the elves, but Perrin had buried himself in the library. He wanted to know the history of this new world, even as he had told of his own.

It was not pleasant reading. For one thing, though the Common Tongue of Middle-Earth seemed to be like the language of his world, the writing was far different, using runes instead of letters, looking much more like Ogier script than the writing he knew. Second, much was written in the dialect of Elvish called Quenya, much like the Old Tongue, a language of scholars.

Erestor and even Elrond himself often helped, helping him pick apart the strange, flowing language of the Elves. When they did, he often wished he had read no more.

Aginor was not the first to make Shadowspawn. The mention of Morgoth had made both Elrond and Glorfindel shiver. As well it might. The utter evil of the highest of the Ainur made Perrin's hair stand up on end. What he had done, what he had caused…and to think that the immortal elves would carry such memories forever…Perrin was now very thankful that he was not immortal. To live such things, to see them, had to be far worse than reading about them.

Yet the triumph in the end, and the heroism that had been shown by men and elves alike, was stunning. Perrin tried to imagine what the Valar had looked like in their wrath, what the victory over Morgoth had looked like. He was sure that no one could fully capture it.

He looked at maps, too. He had always liked maps, almost as much as Rand had, and soon saw that Middle-Earth had never fully recovered from the long wars with Morgoth. Empty lands and barren fields seemed to stretch over much of the land. Rivendell itself was isolated, against the foot of the Misty Mountains, a fortress in all but name, for all its beauty.

Past the First Age, though, the elves forbade him to go. They would say nothing of the Second or Third. Perrin was not stupid. He had heard well what Elrond had said. "Through he world, a thread of evil runs." And in all the victory over Morgoth, there was one figure that was missing. Sauron. His lieutenant was nowhere to be found when the dust settled.

He had no doubt that the dwarves, men and hobbits that were coming into Rivendell had something to do with any evil that might remain. It seemed a council had been called. Over the days, he made sure to meet everyone, introducing himself. They were very quiet, saying little of their mission, saving their words for council, but they told of their homes, and Perrin was able to put faces to places, and see a little more of the world. When asked about himself, he said he was from a far away kingdom, and had also come to serve. That seemed to satisfy most, though a full explanation, he knew, would soon be demanded.

He was especially drawn to the carefree hobbits, a reminder of innocence lost, and often walked among them, talking with them about their home. With aching homesickness he was reminded of the Two Rivers, down to the leaf that was grown there.

In his being snatched away from his home, he had not been able to bring tabac with him, but the hobbits were willing to trade for stories of his own world, and he tried some of the leaf for the first time. It was sweeter than tabac from the Two Rivers, and flavorful. Merry, who seemed to be a hobbit of some importance, promised to give him some seeds. Perrin knew that Tam would like to try growing some, if it would take in his own lands.

He was interrupted from his thoughts by Faile, who put an arm around his shoulders and settled beside him. "I came to get you," she said. "It is nearly time for the evening meal. With all the guests that have come, Elrond is throwing a feast before the Council tomorrow."

Perrin rose, looking out over the sunset. "Elrond and Gandalf have both promised to try and find a way to get us home," he said. "But should we be stuck in Middle Earth, I would not mind settling here. There are many empty lands, and the soil is good. A man could build a kingdom here."

Faile smiled. "I am sure Elrond would not mind the company. But come. Let us go down."

At the Council the next day, Faile sat close to Aragorn, intrigued by the man raised by elves. Perrin sat opposite in the circle, next to the dwarves. Of course he would sit next to them, if half of what she heard about dwarves was true.

"Friends, strangers from distant lands, we come here today to decide the fate of Middle-Earth. It is for us, and no others, to deem this doom. Here we must decide what to do with the Ring." As the sun rose, Elrond spoke clearly and coldly of Sauron, the Dark Lord, and the forging of the Rings of Power. Faile had never been told what Sauron had done after Morgoth's fall. Now she knew, and shivered. He spoke honestly of the deception of the elves, and the long war that had followed. He told of the Last Alliance, and Isildur's fatal mistake.

Faile was sober. All too well she knew of long defenses. At least no Borderland lord had fallen to Isildur's temptation- to use the Enemy's weapons. "For two and a half thousand years it was hidden, until it was found once more."

Gandalf now spoke of Gollum. Faile's heart twisted when she heard the full effect of the Ring. A creeping, insidious evil it was, which was why she marveled at gentle Bilbo's finding and use of the Ring. Though at the end, even he had been nearly overcome. Then Frodo spoke, more unwillingly, of all his doings with the Ring and the frightening journey to bring it to Rivendell.

Faile had to revise her estimation of hobbits. Their land was charming, reminding her of the Two Rivers, but she had thought them small and self-centered, caring only for food and drink. Now she saw it was not so. She knew she would be proud to take any hobbit into her service.

From across the ring, Perrin spoke. "I do not understand. How can these Ringwraiths have such power?"

Aragorn spoke. "The nine rings given to men extended their lives, but also brought them into domination to Sauron. They have eternity like the elves- if what they have can be called life. They do not see the world as we do, but can also see the invisible realm. And at all times they are drawn to the Ring. They are filled with their master's power, and with his hatred. They are truly Sauron's chief servants."

Erestor now spoke. "How do we know this is the Enemy's Ring? What are the proofs?"

"The time has come," Elrond said. "Bring out the Ring."

Perrin watched carefully as the young halfling brought out a simple gold band and set in on the table in the middle of the Circle. So this was the Ring, the item that contained the Enemy's power.

He looked around the circle, feeling the mood. Elves and dwarves alike smelt of disgust and anger, but among the men…there was also the spiky scent of desire from more than one present. And that desire was growing. He could feel it in himself, feel it even in Faile.

"This is wrong," he whispered to himself. It smelt…wrong.

"That's enough," Gandalf said. "You can put it away." Frodo took the Ring, putting it back in his shirt, and at once, the anger and the desire began to fade away.

"Erestor, we know where the Three are, and also where the Nine are. The Seven are also accounted for, taken by Sauron or lost in the dragon fire. And if one has the strength of will to set the band in the fire, he will see letters." At once he rose and spoke in another language, as harsh as Quenya was beautiful. A cloud seemed to come over the sun, and fear and loathing seemed to infect the very air.

Even Elrond looked shaken. "Never before has the Black Speech been heard in Rivendell," he said.

"And let us hope it is not again," Gandalf said. "Yet I do not ask your pardon, Elrond. If it is not to be heard in every valley in the West, let us put aside any doubt that this is the One, filled with Sauron's malice." He sat down heavily.

"What of the others of your order, Mithrandir?" one of the other elves asked. "Where are they in this?"

Perrin wondered as well. As far as he knew, Gandalf was one of five.

Now Gandalf spoke, and Perrin did not have to use his senses to feel the wizard's anger. "The highest of my order has fallen into treachery," he began, and then spoke, his words sharper until Perrin thought the air could be cut with them. So now they had a Forsaken, or one as like as made no difference, to deal with.

When Gandalf had brought everything to a final conclusion, Boromir, the man from the South, asked for leave to speak. He rose, proud, a prince in every inch.

"Saruman is undoubtedly a traitor, but does he not have wisdom?" he said. "I was sent to ask wisdom, not to beg a boon, but we need it. By the blood of my people are our lands kept safe. Let us take the Ring, let us use the Enemy's weapon against him, and ride forth to victory. Let us level the Barad-Dur."

"Alas, no," Elrond said. "The Ring answers only to Sauron. It has no other master."

Boromir bowed slowly. "So be it," he said. "Then we will trust in the weapons we always have."

Perrin felt for the proud soldier, a prince, maybe, if his father was Steward. He thought of his Steward in Saldaea, and wondered what would happen in the lands he ruled. "It seems the Valar, the Powers of the World, have given other help," he said, standing. "Perhaps it is time I told the story of myself and my wife."

Boromir had listened, so far, but now he could listen no more. Who were these strangers that he did not know, that they took council with the great of Middle-Earth? "Yes, who are you?" he said. "Why do you come to this council?"

"Let them tell their story," Elrond said. "Your majesty," he said to Perrin.

And so the strange man with the build of a blacksmith spoke. He spoke of his strange world, like and so unlike to his own, and how he had come by ways he did not know to Rivendell. He spoke of his own rule and his kingdom. It sounded fantastic, the tale of a spy, but he knew Elrond was wise, and Gandalf wiser. Would they be at council if they were untrustworthy?

He looked to Gandalf, and to Elrond. They both nodded. It was enough.

Boromir bowed his head when both gave testimony as to their knowledge, their history, and their trustworthiness. If they were trouble, or if even Elrond had been deceived, they would be dealt with before they left. Five humans would not overcome a whole company of elves. He could give the benefit of the doubt, for a while.

Aragorn watched the strangers closely. What kind of people were they, now that the Ring had been set before them? Would they be strong, or weak? Perrin shook his head, his eyes disgusted, while Faile looked hard at the Ring, as though at an enemy.

Faile spoke slowly, her clear voice commanding the crowd. "If the Ring is destroyed, this spirit, this force, will be no more?"

His foster father shook his head. "No. A spirit cannot be fully destroyed. But he will be brought low, so low that he will never be able to take form or trouble the world ever again."

"Then let us melt it," she said. "Surely there are forges hot enough."

Gandalf sighed. "If we could, Faile, we would. It is said the dragon-fire could melt the Rings, but there is now no dragon with a fire hot enough. Even if one could be found, this is wound around with Sauron's power. The dragons are cunning and evil, to be sure, but still only beasts that can be slain."

Elrond spoke once more. "There is one fire hot enough, though. If it was taken to the place where it was forged, deep in the fires of Mount Doom, it could be destroyed."

Perrin stood. "Then let us lead an alliance into Mordor. Let us unite the Free Peoples, and destroy this menace for all time."

It was here Boromir spoke. "King from a distant land, you do not know of what you speak. Even were all the Men of the West gathered together, with the elves and dwarves as allies, it could not be done. The Last Alliance was led by nations at the height of their power, and though we are still strong, we are not as great as they." Aragorn was surprised at the admission from the proud prince, and again he heard the call for aid.

"Sadly, he is right," Elrond said. "We are estranged. No, one man, or a small company, must go."

Bilbo now rose. "I see what you are getting at, Lord Elrond. I started this adventure, and now I must finish it."

Elrond smiled, and so did Gandalf. "No," the latter said. "It has grown beyond you now. Stay as a recorder, and finish your book." His eyes twinkled. "And be prepared to write a sequel."

Bilbo smiled and sat down. "Then who is to go?" he said. "It seems that is all we have to decide."

The silence stretched out. Aragorn wanted to speak, to break the silence, but then…

"I will take it," said a small voice. Aragorn sighed. "I will take it, though I do not know the way."

He looked at his foster father. "Yes," the elven lord said slowly. "I believe it is for you, Frodo Baggins, to carry this burden. But you will not go alone. All the Free Peoples should be represented, to challenge the might of the Black Lord."

"He has my axe!" said Gimli, fierce in loyalty and friendship as every dwarf.

"And my bow," Legolas said, with no less passion.

"I will not be left behind," said a 'bush' that suddenly showed itself to be Sam.

"Indeed not," said Elrond with a smile. "Loyalty is in your name, Samwise Gamgee."

"And us, neither," said the young Pippin and Merry. Elrond sighed, but motioned for them to join the group gathered around Frodo.

"I too will go," Gandalf said. "With this journey my labors against Sauron will be put to their final test."

"If it is the will of the Council," Boromir said slowly, "Gondor will see it done."

Aragorn too found himself rising. "I swore to protect you," he said. "That does not stop now. You have my sword, Frodo." Yes, it was right. He knew this was the path for him to take. He would help bear a burden the little people should have never had.

"And what of you?" Elrond asked the strangers.

Perrin rose, his hammer heavy at his side. "All are represented, dwarves, elves, hobbits, men and wizards. But we too may be able to help in some small way. What say you, Faile?"

Faile rose, tall, but small next to the mountain she had married. "Yes, husband, I believe this is our road. But there are still things to consider before we set out." There was a glint in her eye, and Aragorn wondered what she was thinking. "What if we created a diversion?"

 **A/N: I wonder what Faile has in mind? Let's remember that Gimli is the son of one of Thorin's Company, Legolas is a prince of Mirkwood, Elrond and Gandalf belong to the White Council, and Boromir is the Son of the Steward and Captain of the White Tower. They all command enormous respect. Not to mention Aragorn, the king in exile.**

 **That sort of combined respect could do a lot, I feel, and I wonder why it was never explored more in the books. I have an idea I have to explore along with our fearless queen. I hope you'll like it.**


	4. Chapter 4- Going South

Gimli watched the strange queen carefully. For two months, while scouts scoured the surrounding area for the Ringwraiths and other spies of Mordor, they had been toughening up in preparation for the long journey. He was impressed with her, a nobleman's daughter, but still as tough as any Man he had ever known.

It was time for them to practice throwing daggers and axes. They had switched weapons, Gimli taking up the light daggers she wore and she taking up a throwing axe.

"Now look here, lass," he said. "The axe is heavier than the dagger. You will have to put some force into your throw. It might also feel different."

Faile grinned. "I see what you mean," she said. "It is differently balanced." She tried a few practice throws. She was a quick study, and soon was, if not hitting the center of the target, coming close.

For his part, Gimli had to relax his strength some, less he hurt the finely crafted steel. It was far thinner and lighter than an axe. They were also finely balanced, the weapons of a master.

"Did your husband make these daggers for you?" he asked. "I know he has worked with metal."

"No," the Queen said as she retrieved them and handed Gimli back his axe. "These are from before I met him, when I still lived with my father. His smith made them."

"It's good steel," he said admiringly. "Some of our master dwarves might match this work, but not many."

Faile accepted the compliment with a smile, even as she saw her husband approach. His training had been a little different, for he was a long walker and was used to hard travel. He practiced the sword with Aragorn and Boromir, but had little to learn from the dwarves, for their styles were very similar. When it came to the bow, even the elves were impressed. His had been more the learning of knowledge, and how they might approach the Black Land.

Today, though, he had met with Elrond and Gandalf to discuss the idea she had raised at the great council.

"Did they agree?" she asked. "I know it is a risk."

"They did," he said, a smile breaking his bearded face. "Gloin is going to go west, to meet with the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains. If they agree, they will march down the empty coastlands and meet up with the army of Gondor."

"And will the Steward agree?" she asked.

"Messengers have already been sent. The dwarves itch in their halls. They hate Sauron as much as the elves and men do, and will gladly raise an army to help Gondor."

"And so the Black Lord will think there is a new master of the Ring, while Frodo sneaks into his very halls to destroy his power." Faile grinned. "Do you think your kin will agree?"

"Oh, they will," Gimli said. He knew full well that the dwarves of the Blue Mountains were exactly as Perrin had said-fierce! "The Steward will thank Azaghal, the delf of Belegost, for his help. But how will my kin be paid for their labour?"

"That's the question," Perrin said. "There was talk of colonies in the White Mountains. They would be subject to Gondor's laws, of course, but apparently few dwarves have explored there."

"Ha! The Steward will never agree," Gimli said. Few wanted the dwarves, fierce in love and enmity. Especially not mining the metals that Denethor thought rightfully belonged to him.

"If he is wise, he will," Faile said. "The hatred of Sauron against the descendents of Numenor is the strongest of all hatreds, and the Steward's list of allies grows thin. And any colonies established will be in Gondor's lands. He will make himself rich off of taxes. Besides, if he is worried about his survival, he might ask how 2,000 dwarven warriors might help him."

Gimli smiled. "Your wife is a wise woman," he said. "All will benefit from this arrangement." He was also shocked. He did not know if Azaghal had two thousand to send, and said so.

"Oh, I think he will," Perrin said. "He will not pass up the opportunities to make the coast secure, and to mine the metals that have to be in these new mountains. The remnants of Nogrod and Belegost will want some of their old glory, I think."

Gimli smiled. They would, indeed. He had met Azaghal before, and the old delf had proven wily. He had no doubt he would be in charge of any expeditions, making sure he got what he felt was his due.

"And us?" he said. "When do we depart?"

"The last scouts are coming in," Perrin said. Gimli had gone on some of the patrols himself, and knew messengers had been sent all the way to the Greenwood. "Elrond thinks within a few weeks."

Gimli was hardy, but the thought of crossing the mountains in winter made him shiver. "Well, lad, I suppose I should sharpen my axes. Aule knows they will drink orc blood soon enough."

"The Two Rivers could have used some good dwarves when we were overrun with Shadowspawn," Perrin said. "They would have made quick work of any Trollocs."

"Ah, you told me the story. Farmers and hunters holding off an army of demons. Your land has tough bones." He meant the compliment sincerely. "And the North…ah, Queen Faile, three thousand years you held off the darkness. No, the honor is mine."

181818

Faile had not just come to chat with his wife and the sturdy dwarf, though he was stunned by the compliment. Of all the races in this strange world, the dwarves were thought to be the toughest, and those who endured the most hardship, far better than men or even the elves.

"I came to get you. Elrond wnats both of us at the forges. He did not say why."

His wife smelled puzzled. "You I understand, but the working of metal does not belong to me."

"And I am not…" Gimli said. He smelled offended, though underneath the offence was bright friendship and affection.

"No," Perrin said. He was confused himself. "Not today, my friend."

Gimli scowled as he walked away. "Come," he said to his wife. "Come, let us go on."

The smithy was a low building not far from the main house. Perrin had been there several times, curious how the elves worked with metal, though he had not worked at the forge himself.

Elrond and Aragorn met him at the entrance. Aragorn was carrying a bundle, holding it reverently, and set it down on a long table. Carefully, he unfolded the fabric, to reveal peaces of a broken sword. "This is Narsil, that cut the Ring from Sauron's finger."

"Aragorn is going to war on Mordor's border," Elrond said. "It is only right he should wear his ancestor's sword."

"But Isildur was king of…" and the penny dropped. When one looked at Aragorn, he looked merely like a ranger. There was no king in him. Not at first glance. Even his leadership could be merely that of a man who knew the wilderness well. But now all the pieces fit.

Faile was looking at him in a new light as well, and dipped her head, from one monarch to another. "Do not speak of it," Aragorn said. "Not where anyone might hear. I will not be king until Sauron is defeated."

Perrrin well understood what was not said. The Broken Crown was now whole, but…but there had been some tense words in the Council of Lords in Saldaea before he had been fully accepted. Some still could not see past his outland ways.

"My heritage is in your hands, Perrin," Aragorn said. "I hope that you will remake the sword of kings."

"I will try," Perrin said, honored at the trust. "But should not Gimli or one of the elves do the work?"

"No," Aragorn responded. "They are not kings. You will put your majesty into the sword as you put your majesty into your hammer. It too is the weapon of a king." With that, he left.

Perrin had tried to explain about Power-forged weapons, but he was still not sure they elves understood. Fager and Neald had made the weapon, but then again, he had put his worries and fears into the hammer, and that had made it strong. He sighed. He understood this too. Saldaea for three thousand years had waited for victory over the darkness, and it now had come. Aragorn's lands still labored in shadow.

He fully unfolded the cloth, laying out the pieces carefully to see how they fit. Faile watched. "I think I understand why I came," she said quietly. In her scent was an emotion he had never smelt before, a sort of fear, but not really…awe, perhaps.

"Put on a vest," he said, doing the same. "And begin to pump the bellows."

Faile picked a leather vest and long gloves, and began to pump the bellows, the coals turning from dull red to a fiery white. Carefully, Perrin took the hilt and the piece that followed after, his eyes working to see any flaws in the metal, his heart singing with the victory of men. The metal began to heat, turning a dull red, then a brighter color. The forge was well equipped, and he took up a hammer, testing the weight. He had never made a sword yet, never repaired one, but he had made axe heads, scythes, and all manner of other blades.

Sending up a prayer to the Light, he brought the hammer down, then again. He soon lost himself in the pattern of the work, as the sword of kings took shape under his fingers. He could feel light, with himself at the center, flowing into the blade, almost as though he wielded the One Power himself. He knew what it was, of course- the glory and majesty of the immortal ones. But he also added his own light- the light of victory won, of triumph over the darkness, of strength in the fire of adversity and all he knew of the valor of men. The metal drank it in like dry ground would drink in water, and Perrin added what he knew of the Last Alliance and the triumph over Sauron.

"You will be victorious again," he said as he added shard after shard. "Once again, light will banish darkness." He reached deep inside, deeper ever than he had before, to the place where he was Young Bull, and added even the strength and majesty and wildness of the wolves. With every stroke he spoke of courage and victory, and by the time he was done, he felt as though he had been drained dry. But it was done.

He stood, sweating, on shaking legs, and immediately Faile was there to steady him. He found his feet and bowed as he quenched the blade, then went to the grinding wheel to add an edge. Then he looked up, surprised to see that night had fallen.

He had drawn a crowd. Elves and men, hobbits and Gandalf the wizard, and even Gimli the dwarf were there. Elrond himself stood with his daughter and his twin sons, and Aragorn stood alone, but close.

Gimli smiled. "Any dwarven craftsmen would be pleased to see such work," he said. But it was to the king in exile that Perrin looked. Aragorn now looked a king, and Perrin bent his knee.

"Receive your own, Aragorn," he said, holding out the sword. "As one king to another, you said."

Aragorn took up the blade, and the torches and flames of the smithy were revealed in the edge. "I rename you Anduril, Flame of the West," he said. "The work is well done, Perrin King."

"Indeed," Elrond said. "We will put runes on it, and make a sheath, but it is full of the light of both men and elves."

"It was as though the sword remembered its victory and craved more," Perrin said. "Your captain, Glorfindel, spoke of enchanted weapons. I believe this is one like, for never has a piece of metal craved so much. I am tired from much more than the forge."

Legolas waited patiently for the rest of the Company. As an elf, he carried little. His knives, forged in Mirkwood and baptized in spider blood, and the bow he had made himself, served as weapons. A warm cloak, a few packages of food wrapped to keep dry, and a change of clothes. That was all he needed.

He looked out to the South, the course they would take. It had been decided they would march south through the empty lands south of Rivendell, and then cross the mountains at the Redhorn Gate. It was a dangerous road, but safer than going north toward the goblins of the Ettensmoors.

He thought of his companions. The tall ranger and his friend, Aragorn, the king in exile. What to think of him? He was going toward his destiny, set against the proud Steward's son. They were friends now, often laughing together, but Legolas could see the strain between the two men.

The dwarf. Well…no. All knew of Thorin's company. Because of what they had done, the North of Middle-Earth was well secure, both against dragons and the hosts of the North. For that alone he would work with him.

Mithrandir was well known. As a wizard, he would be strong in wisdom and defense, especially if Saruman had fallen into the Shadow. If anyone could get them to Orodruin, it would be the Gray Wizard.

And the hobbits, the cheerful, little people. Against the temptation of the Ring was the people who needed or wanted nothing more than good soil and a full belly. That the Ring had come to them…if nothing else, their laughter would ease them on the Quest.

Finally the two strangers. Like Boromir, he had wondered why they belonged in council. Unlike the Son of the Steward, he knew the Valar could do marvels. Though the idea of other worlds still gave him a shock.

Here came Perrin now. His hammer in his hand, he was a sight to behold. He was not as tall as Beorn, but his thick chest and arms made him look much larger than he was. He was reminded of the bears that once lived in the Greenwood, fierce in their wrath.

"You are prepared," the big man said softly. He also looked prepared, carrying a heavy pack. A bow stood up over one shoulder, though he wore no mail or armor.

"Yes, I am," Legolas said. "My kind need little sleep, Perrin, and we need little to sustain us. So the Creator made us. I came to watch the sunset before we set out."

"Your home…your home is in the West?" Perrin said, looking out to the Westlands and what lied beyond.

"One day, the Sea will call me. But not for many years. I would see Middle-Earth made safe."

Perrin nodded companionably. "Now that I find myself here, so would I. If we are stuck here, and cannot find a way back to our home, we would love to settle here. Maybe in time, we could have our own kingdom."

Of course, Perrin was a king. Perhaps he could rule over the woodsmen, and keep the piece between the Golden Wood and Greenwood the Great. "The elves would always give you help and welcome," Legolas said. He was sure of it. The big hearted king reminded him of the forest and the woods, not of the stone and steel of men. Thranduil would welcome a man with such a spirit.

Others came out to the porch now, and still they sat together, watching the sunset. There was no need to say anything as Anor went down in fire. Soon all were gathered, and Elrond came out to the porch. "Now is gathered the Fellowship of the Ring. No command is laid on any except for the Ringbearer, and that not to give up the Ring or let any other of the Fellowship handle it except at great need."

"Faithless is the one who turns back in the darkness," Gimli said. Legolas had to smile. The dwarf was true to his race. But the elves had wisdom too.

"But let not he who has not seen the darkness promise to persevere," he said. That was the wisdom of Mirkwood. Too many had made promises, and been lost in the dark.

Gandalf looked at both of them as though he had guessed both their intents. Legolas was the oldest, but he felt like a child next to that sharp gaze. He decided to keep his opinion between his teeth. Though Faile, for a moment, shot him a look of commisseration. She was discerning, that one, almost with the sight of an elf.

 **A/N: I know it was short. But I wanted to show our noble strangers from different perspectives, and I had to show the reforging of Narsil. It was a brilliant moment that I wished had been seen in the books and movies both.**

 **To the reviewer who talked about the World of Dreams: I have to think about it. Perrin is powerful, but I am not sure he is powerful enough to undo the work of a demigod. It's a good idea, though.**

 **Action will pick up in the next chapter, as the Company faces some wolves and a snowstorm.**


	5. Chapter 5- The Searching of Dreams

The Searching of Dreams

For the first two days, they did little but march and sleep. Perrin found the empty lands south of Rivendell unsettling. There were empty lands in his world too, but people still lived there. Here there was only rock and sky. Hardly even a bird was seen, and they lived from their packs.

Perrin was also nervous. He knew there was one thing he had to do in this world. The elf was a good scout, but could he see what was in dreams? He could protect them, maybe, from what could not be seen.

On the third night, he asked. "Gandalf, are wolves creatures of the shadow?"

Gandalf stopped in the act of lighting his pipe, and Faile sat straight up from where she had been lounging. "Regular wolves? No. They are hungry, and may steal a sheep on occasion, but no. The wargs are a mockery of a true wolf, Perrin."

"Aye," Boromir said. "There are wolves in Gondor, but they rarely trouble us. The Wizard speaks true."

Faile shot him a look. "Walk with me, husband." It was not a request.

"I have to," Perrin said when they were out of earshot. "It is one way to protect the others, to scout the road and see what may harm us."

"And if Sauron or Saruman sense you?" Faile said. "What then?"

"Frodo is the most important member of our fellowship," Perrin said. "You took the Horn, against my will, and ended up in the Blight. It was that Horn that saved us in the end. What if I had lost you, wife?"

Faile sighed. She was still spiky with anger, but she nodded, her lips in a thin line. "If you fall, I will take up your sword," she said softly. Those words, spoken from love, nearly made Perrin reconsider, but he nodded back.

He was tired, and did not think sleep would be a problem for him. He was right. Slipping into the wolf dream, he took the form of Young Bull and sent out a sending. There were packs in the mountains, but the communication was different, as though he communicated with dumb beasts. Still he ranged outward, leaping as he had learned. The mountains were taller, far taller than the Mountains of Mist, and he could sense dangers in many places. An orc camp here, gnawed bones from trolls there. But along the eastern side, where they were to march, the path was still clear. There was also a sense of anger in the mountains, as though they did not like the tread of men.

Keeping Faile's warning in mind, he did not go too far. The Ringwraiths, at least, he did not sense, and he was sure if there were any other dangers, the Fellowship could deal with them. He had sparred with them enough to know that they were skilled warriors.

Waking himself up, he nudged Faile. "The road is clear," he whispered softly. It was time for him to take the watch, and he went to Gandalf and the dwarf, who were whispering together. He said nothing of the wolves, simply stating that he could walk in the unseen world, and that he had seen no threats.

Gandalf nodded. "Many have been given such perception," he said, and Perrin was reminded of the history he had read. "I would ask you to do this every night if you can."

Perrin was agreeable, and so every night he would spend a short time in the wolf dream, scouting for danger. So the days wore away, and slowly, the mountains drew closer, until at last three great peaks stood up in front of them. The dwarf now took the lead more often, happy to be close to his ancient home.

"Your home," Perrin said. "I hope to meet more of your race."

"Balin will give you a royal welcome," Gimli said. "Malt beer, red meat off the bone…" Perrin's stomach rumbled, and Gimli laughed. Gandalf, however, did not laugh.

"I would take the mines only if we have no other choice."

That night, he slept again. This time, it was different. He felt fouled, and he knew evil had found them at last. It waited, a pack of not-wolves, hiding from sight in a hollow of the hills. He wondered if they were Shadowbrothers, for their touch on his mind felt much the same- mindless, soulless evil. Leaving them, he circled around, running to see if he could find more threats. There was an echo to the south, at the edge of the mountains, and Perrin knew who had sent them. Quickly withdrawing, he woke up.

Aragorn and Legolas were on duty tonight, and he crept up to them. Word of his abilities had spread, and Aragorn looked at him. "Trouble?" he said.

"Wargs," Perrin said. "At least, what I think are wargs. Five miles, maybe. They lie in wait for us. There was an echo to the south."

"Saruman," the elf said. "If he knows we are here, all is lost."

"Wake the others," Aragorn said. "If they come upon us, we will be ready."

Soon the whole fellowship was awake, and the fire built up. "How hard are they to kill?" he asked.

"A good arrow will do for them," Boromir replied.

Slinging his bow off his back, Perrin strung it in one motion, then nocked an arrow. It smelt wrong, not the sulfur of Darkhounds, but a wet, slavering smell. He let the wolf out, just a little, and waited.

181818

Aragorn had wondered at Perrin, the king with the eyes of a wolf and the hands of a smith, a destroyer and a builder. The big man no longer looked calm, but dangerous. He was slightly hunched, and his bow was held in a steady hand. Strong as he was, Aragorn had tried to draw it and could not.

Eyes began to appear, yellow like Perrin's, reflecting the eyes of the fire. The misplaced king loosed, and one of the eyes went dark. On the other side, there was another hiss, and he knew the elf was also using his bow. The eyes withdrew, and then came back, a hundred in a great ring. Still Aragorn waited, Anduril in his fist.

"Hold!" he said. "We must defend and not attack."

Then he did, as the wargs entered into the light of the fire. Anduril swung smoothly, and one of the great bodies fell still. He saw that Perrin had dropped his bow and was now using his hammer to deadly effect, while his tall wife was a dancing shadow, weaving in and out of the firelight, metal in her hands a living death. The rest of the Fellowship were also fighting, Boromir's sword an extension of his arm, Gimli snarling curses as his great axes cleared a space around him, Gandalf using staff and sword to great effect, and even the hobbits using their blades to attack any warg that entered into the circle.

Still they came on, a horde of death. A hundred against eleven, but Aragorn refused to lose hope. Snatching a brand from the fire, he threw it hard at the biggest warg. It caught on the fur and the warg leapt up in pain, twisting away and bumping into another. The flames caught and spread, and the Fellowship rallied. In the light of the fire, Perrin was transformed into a terrifying figure. He was no wizard, but his strength was immense as he scattered wargs like kindling.

Soon enough, the fight was done. Aragorn's mind shifted into healing. None had been injured, remarkably enough, and though they were all frightened, some of the cordial of Rivendell woke them up out of their shock.

"I sense no more of them," Perrin said, and Legolas concurred.

"You fought like one of the Beornings," Gimli said. "They can shapeshift into bears, it is said, and are terrifying in their wrath. Yet they are true-hearted folk and suffer no evil."

Aragorn thought the same as well. "Your eyes," he started. "No man I have met has yellow eyes."

Perrin shifted. "There is a blessing that I have from my world," he said. "I am part wolf. I do not transform like the Beornings you speak of, but in dreams, I can run and act as a wolf."

His wife stood up, proud, from where she had been speaking to Frodo. "He is their king, as much as wolves have a king. In the Last Battle, he helped lead us all to victory."

"I have heard of the men of Beorn far in the North," Boromir said slowly. "If this king from another world is like them, I consider it a blessing."

Aragorn nodded. "As do I." He knew the Beornings well, and was on good terms with their chieftain. "Should you stay, perhaps I can introduce you to their leaders." Perrin nodded, grateful, Aragorn thought.

Frodo looked up. "And I. It is true, we suffered an invasion of wolves when my uncle was very young, but it was a hard winter for us all."

"I remember that winter," Gandalf said. "All struggled to survive then, wolves and men and hobbits alike. I too feel a blessing in this." He spoke with authority, and all fell silent.

"We feared…" Faile began after a time. "Many in our world fear what they do not understand. There were some who would have killed my husband, had they known what he was. We did not know how you would react."

Aragorn understood that well. How many looked down on him? "You will come to no harm while you are with us," he said with finality. "But perhaps now we should sleep. We still have a long march over the pass."

To that, all agreed, and soon they were wrapped in their blankets.

181818

Faile had heard of the Beornings, as well, but had thought that it was simply an exaggerated tale, like some spoke of the Aes Sedai. These men she had come to respect spoke of them with deadly seriousness, however, and she had no doubt every word was true. That meant that her dear husband had friends on both sides of the veil. Perhaps it was true, as Lord Elrond had thought, that they were in a Mirror of the Wheel.

Such thoughts occupied her mind as the ground began to slope up in front of her. Caradhras was a tall peak that caught the morning sun with a red look that looked like blood. The stories about the mountain were not encouraging, and today, she could almost believe them.

"Do we have to go over?" she asked.

"Yes," Gandalf said. "I will not risk going under." Gimli glowered, but said nothing. She had come to like the dwarf, but she had to agree with the wizard. A march in the dark with possible goblins was not to her liking.

"I have seen hard winters," Perrin said, "and lived my childhood toward the foot of the Mountains of Mist. If I may suggest, we should each take a bundle of wood, as much as we can carry. I am not sure I believe the stories about the mountain, but we will have cold before we come down the other side."

"I would advise the same," Boromir said. "I too live close to the high mountains."

She admitted the wisdom was sound, though she still did not know how to feel about him. He had accepted her and Perrin, after his sound doubts, but…but something about him still did not sit right with her. She put her own doubts to the back of her mind, resolved to be more watchful, and took up the bundle of wood with no complaint, thankful for the long marches around Rivendell.

They set out again, and soon passed ruins. Faile came up to Gandalf. "The air feels different here," she said.

Gandalf smiled, and she was reminded of her uncles. "Yes, Faile. This used to be the realm of Hollin, where elf and dwarf worked together, alone in all of Middle-Earth. A land cannot forget the fair folk once they have come here."

Perrin came up on the other side. "So this was where…" he lowered his voice, "where the Rings of Power were forged."

"Yes," Gandalf said sadly. "The Silverfoot reached too high. Yet when Sauron's betrayal was revealed, he fought to the last. His resistance and courage gave hope to all free peoples."

Faile sighed. The soldiers of Saldaea had long fought the Shadow, but to fall to the Enemy's weapons was not something they had ever done. Looking at the ruined stone, she tried to imagine the elven city in its heyday, and blinked. She looked over at Legolas. Even knowing that the elves were one day to fade, she still felt a keen sense of loss.

But now the path was growing steeper, and she had to watch her footing. Perrin helped her, and for several hours they progressed before the wizard called a halt. Boromir had been teaching the hobbits some of swordplay, and they continued while Gimli and Legolas set out a small meal, all animosity forgotten for the moment. Faile took the chance to catch her breath, but Perrin was looking to the south.

"There is no wind, but that is a moving cloud," he said, pointing to a wisp that Faile could indeed see was moving. Perrin had stopped still, and realization came into his face. "Crows," he said in a whisper, his face white. Faile had never seen him afraid, but she was well aware that birds could be used as spies of the Enemy. Sauron or Saruman, it did not matter.

"Hide!" she said. "All of you!" She made her voice as sharp as she could, the voice of command, and the Fellowship moved quickly. She had to tug on Perrin's arm to move him, though, and was determined to find out why birds would scare him so. She thought she knew all his secrets.

She wedged in with him beside a column of stone, and waited. The cloud grew, and soon the cawing of ravens could be clearly heard. Perrin closed his eyes, and though the fear went out of his face, he still did not open his eyes until the flock was completely gone.

"The pass is being watched," Gandalf said when they had come out. "We must now travel at night to avoid being seen, and we must light no fires."

Later that night, when they had once again started out, Faile asked him about his fear. He told her simply, and she shivered, then put an arm around him. "I am sorry," she said. She meant it, too. "But if it comes to such a choice, I too would choose a clean death."

"That is what Elyas said," Perrin whispered back. "But to kill someone in cold blood…" he trailed off, then took a deep breath and tried again. "I am still haunted by that day and all that happened there."

"It was a day that changed your life," she said. "Yet you have come through, my dear husband. Do not weep for the dead, but care for the living, I said, and you did." She didn't think any less of him for his fear. All men had fears, but he had proven a worthy husband. She had her own fear, one she rarely spoke of.

The wind grew colder as they marched, and a few flakes of snow began to fall. She trudged on, unworried. This was sugar to her, a light dusting that frosted the ground. She looked to the hobbits. They also looked untroubled, in fact Merry had already made a snowball and tossed it at a nearby rock.

Soon, though, the snow began to grow heavier, from a breeze to a full storm. She was in the middle, but she could hardly see the shoulders of her husband in front of her, or Gimli behind her. Strange shapes of rocks were blunted by the snow, and finally she stopped.

"Gandalf," she yelled. "How far is it to go until we rest?" He was at the head of the column and turned. White coated his hair and beard, like some hero out of legend, and his eyes were grim.

"We must march. If we don't, we will die here."

"The hobbits have to rest." In glimpses, she could see them fighting for every step, their faces blue, their teeth chattering. She didn't feel much better herself, and she was reminded of the forced march with the Aiel. She pushed down the memory.

Legolas ran forward a bit, and then came back. "There is a shelf, and we can shelter under it. It is not much, but it is better than the open path."

"A short rest," Gandalf agreed. They soon reached the shelf, and Faile and Perrin put the hobbits behind the pony. Boromir encouraged a fire, and Perrin and Gimli added their voices. Finally Gandalf sighed and gave in.

Though he had agreed, neither the elf nor the dwarf could make a spark catch in the wet wood. Finally the Wizard himself took a hand. Raising his staff, he muttered words in his own tongue, one that Faile had still not mastered, and soon the wood had caught.

"We are revealed," Gandalf grumbled. "If there are any to watch, I have written 'Gandalf is here' for anyone to read."

Faile wondered if anything but them were out in the storm, and was glad for the fire. Perrin, though, seemed unamused, and looked around warily.

"Wargs?" she said quietly.

"No," he said. "But Gandalf is right. We are not far from Saruman, and who knows what powers he may have? Remember that Sammael knew what we did all the way in Tear."

Faile remembered well, and that sobered her. She spun a dagger in numb hands, and smiled grimly. "He will be dealt with sooner or later," she said. "If not by us, then by Gandalf. He does not seem to let such evil lie."

"Yes, what he has shown is but a fraction of his full strength," Perrin said, putting an arm around her and then taking her hands in his own. He was warm and solid, and Faile rested against him.

She found herself dozing, and suddenly realized the storm had stopped. There was no talk now of going forward, for the clouds were still heavy with snow, but going back was not as easy as it looked. Some of the snowdrifts looked as high as her head, and she knew that the hobbits would never survive them.

Aragorn took charge. "Legolas, see how far these drifts go." For the first time, she noticed that the elf, as though on wings, could run on the snow, and tamped down her jealousy. He had his gifts, and she had hers. He disappeared around the bend, and then returned.

"The greatest snowdrift is just around the corner, and from there, it goes down quickly, until it is simply a blanket to cool a hobbit's toes."

"Not a natural storm, then," Gimli growled, and Faile felt the hair on her back stand up. It seemed her husband was right once more.

"We have to get off the mountain," he said. "Boromir, you look strong, and so do you, Aragorn. Come, let us make a way for the little people."

The two men nodded, and the three of then began to wade into the snow, pushing it aside with their arms and tamping it down with their legs. Faile knew her husband was strong, but she was still astonished. All the way up the mountain, and then clearing a path to go back down. She was impressed with the other two, as well.

"Had they lived in my lands, they would not remain unmarried long." She did not know she had spoken aloud until Frodo laughed.

Legolas laughed as well, and even Gimli gave a chuckle. "Aye, your majesty. Aye. So where are your little ones?"

Faile felt heat in her face. Two years, and not a child. Not to say that she and Perrin had not tried. That made her blush more, and she felt Pippin snigger behind her.

Faile felt herself smile. The hobbits were irrepressible, always able to cheer her. So had the talk of family. "One day, we will have children. But until then, we will wait." She spoke sternly, but let the smile come, and Gimli and Pippin smiled back.

Just then, she saw Perrin puffing back, Boromir and Aragorn not far behind. "It was a challenge even for me!" he said. "But the elf was right. We have made a path, and soon we will be on dry ground again."

He was proved right, and soon they were marching back downhill.

"Where now do we go?" Boromir asked. "The Gap of Rohan is closed to us, and the pass over the mountains is blocked."

"If not over, than under," the dwarf said. There was a gleam in his eye, and Faile was reminded of an old soldier at last seeing his home after years of separation.

"I am opposed," Gandalf said, and Aragorn nodded. "But the Ringbearer should decide."

Faile looked down on Frodo. Unlike her trials, he had freely chosen his burden. She remembered her promise to him, and swore to protect him whatever he decided. He looked back up at her and nodded.

"We go through the mines," he said quietly.

Gandalf sighed. "So be it."

 **A/N: I know that I am more or less following the books at this point, but I do have some plans to split off in time. I just have to find the right opportunity.**

 **As for all that Faile and Perrin talk about, and how they met and what they did, the books are worthy reading. Hopefully, these clues and hints will make you want to read more! I'll try not to spoil too much for those who do not know the whole story.**

 **Also, if I had to drop just one Aes Sedai or Asha'man (only one) into my story, who should it be and why? I may add just one more character in time. Just one. And no, I won't cheat, so there will be no Traveling to Mount Doom. Sorry.**


	6. Chapter 6- The Dark Places

Chapter 6- The Dark Places

Faile marched downhill, feeling weary. For three days they had marched toward a point only Gandalf knew, and her body seemed to protest her ignorance. Perrin was strong, but even he could only help so much.

The others also seemed to be suffering the effects of their near escape off the mountain, but they remained cheerful, knowing they were moving toward a destination. All except Boromir. He too seemed on edge.

One night, she asked him. "What troubles you?" she asked softly, so as not to wake the others. "The others take the council of the wizard. You do not, Boromir."

"The wizard has never led us wrong," the tall man said, then shook his head. "No, it is just…you come from a culture of warriors. Is it not your nature to have a smooth path before your feet, a battle to fight and win?"

Faile nodded, feeling a sudden kinship with the prince of Gondor. "Had you said I would fall in love with a blacksmith that runs with wolves, I would have called you a fool. Yet it was as the Pattern demanded. Perhaps we do not see the way before our feet, but…"

Boromir smiled, but there was no joy in it. "Yes, now you see all that had to be for the war to be won. Yet at the end, your nation was in ruins and your family was dead. What if…" he swallowed. "What if that is Gondor's fate? Queen Faile, I am charged with the defense of my nation. How can I let it fall?"

Faile had no easy answer for him. Even her own answer only seemed to work for her. All she could do was put an arm around his shoulders. "You are an honorable man. Let us hope your nation can also be spared. We will do all we can to make that happen."

Now Boromir's face rose. "I had my doubts about you and your husband, strangers as you are. But now my doubts are gone. Thank you, Queen Faile."

The next day saw them at great walls of stone, the doors of Moria. Towering over their heads, and guarded by two huge holly trees, it was an impressive sight. It was a wall that none might breach. Faile could see no way in, anyway, even after moonlight had brought the doors to life.

Still, though she knew they had to press on, she was curious. She knew some of the runes from her study, but the two branches of elvish were far different than any language she knew. She tried to trace the inscription, and Gandalf guided her hand.

"It says, 'The walls of Moria. Speak, friend, and enter. I, Celebrimbor, drew these signs.'" His voice was low. "The star is the symbol of the house of Feanor, and the hammer that of the dwarves."

"So the Silverfoot made these doors, but how do we get in?" Her natural impatience and boldness made her shift restlessly, but Gandalf merely smiled.

"It is simple, you speak the password and the doors will open. I once knew every spell in the tongues of elves, men or orcs for such business, but only a few tests will be necessary, I think."

Perrin came up, startling her. "The pony can't go into the mines," he said. "Sam and I have distributed the load as best we can." What he held out to her were some small pots and a box that from the smell contained spices.

"He loves that pony," Faile said. "Yet he is resolved?"

Her husband nodded. "The Shire is like the Two Rivers. There's a toughness to them that needs just the spark to make it grow." He finished tying the pots to her pack, and then put an arm around her. "Now we wait?"

Faile looked at where Gandalf was tapping at the doors. "It may be a while, my husband."

Perrin called over to Gimli. "You are a dwarf. Do you know the password, my friend?"

Gimli looked embarressed. "No, king Perrin. Even at the height of Khazad-Dum, the password was not common knowledge. Should I know it, I would have given it."

Perrin nodded and went to sit on a rock. The hobbits were throwing rocks into the pool, and Faile heard Aragorn tell them to stop. She understood, but she was restless herself. What if wargs or orcs came up the path? They would be trapped against the doors that would not open. She paced, restless, as she thought about the riddle of the password.

"Speak, friend, and enter," she muttered. She almost felt she had the answer. It had to be simple enough, a word maybe, or a phrase. Suddenly a thought seized her. "What if the password is the word for friend?" she said.

Gandalf looked at her, then a small smile broke his face. "Of course!" he said. "Of course!" He rose to his feet. "Too simple for suspicious times. Mellon!" he cried. The silver faded on the doors, then they cracked open, leaving a dark doorway into space.

Faile swallowed hard. It was forbidding, but it was the way they needed to go. Hoisting her pack to her shoulders, she looked around for Perrin, only to catch her breath in horror.

181818

Aragorn looked around at the group as they waited. Perrin had taken action, preparing the group for the journey, while Faile seemed pensive and quiet. Though she did not know it, he had heard her words to Boromir, and they had pricked something in him as well.

"You married well, Perrin," he murmured to himself as he warned the hobbits not to throw stones, and as Faile showed her intelligence once again. He moved to help her into the mines, even as she turned to her husband. Her eyes widened, and he looked back to see Frodo hoisted in the air by a long, slimy tentacle.

His sword came into his hand without thought. Monster of mountains or monster of Mordor, it could not be allowed to have the ring. One slimy tentacle fell at his feet, but there were twenty others.

In an instant Perrin was beside him, his hammer an extension of his arm. He could not slice through the tentacles, but they seemed to draw back from the huge man. Soon enough Boromir was also there, and finally, the monster seemed to fall down. The king caught Frodo, while over his head, an arrow flew and a great eye went dark.

Gently setting Frodo on his feet, he pushed him toward the mines. "Go!" he said, and then waded into the water.

"Into the mines!" Gandalf said, and Aragorn was torn. He decided to help Perrin, and take the fight to the enemy. Though he respected Gandalf, it was an enemy that could lie at their backs. Too, he felt frustrated and wanted to vent some of his anger, for already they were followed by foes.

The monster was large, looming over their heads, but Perrin was a worthy warrior, and they drove the monster back into the water, giving time for the rest of the Company to go into the mines. There were hundreds of tentacles, or so it seemed, and soon he found himself tired. Eventually, though, it began to retreat, and Perrin gave his strongest blow yet at the head. It shivered and fell back into the water and did not rise again.

Aragorn looked at the fierce king, covered in water and blood, and then at himself. "Let's hope the company preserved some of our belongings," he said, and Perrin laughed.

"Not as bad as some challenges I have faced," he said with a smile. "Your weapon is enchanted as well as mine. Come, let us rejoin the rest of our company."

181818

Legolas walked slowly through the mines. His father's home was underground, yes, but this was far different. Mirkwood had air and light. Apart from Gandalf's staff, there was little light, and the air was musty with battle and blood.

He had heard of the wars of the orcs and the dwarves, both pitiless enemies of the other, and saw in the scattered skeletons the result of their rage. This was a terrible slaughter, but Legolas remembered the peace it had bought in the North.

And there was beauty too, he knew. Alone here now could mithril be found.

Faile, always hungry for knowledge, walked next to Gimli, her fierce husband on the other side. "What did your people mine here?" she asked, and Gimli answered, pride in his voice. For once, Legolas did not begrudge him.

"Mithril, your majesty," he said. "Strongest of all metals, it could be beaten into armor that would not rust and would reflect the moon and stars. It was in high demand when first Khazad-Dum was settled, and has only become more so."

Gandalf waved his staff to the left, and over the deep pit which they walked, the elf could see the veins of ore, unreachable save by some miracle. He knew what the dwarf spoke was true. Even in Mirkwood, full of treasure, there was little of the fabled metal. He was not covetous, like his father, but even he felt a stirring at the thought of owning such beauty.

Suddenly he saw something else, and he stopped short.

"What is it?" Boromir asked, who was to his rear.

"Gollum," Legolas said. He felt badly that once he had escaped, and put a hand to his bow. "How he followed us I do not know, but he is here."

"The creature who once owned the Ring?" Boromir whispered back. His hand went to his sword hilt, and he tensed.

"Yes," Legolas whispered. "Gandalf should know." He ran toward the head of the party, and whispered to Gandalf. The old wizard brought up his head in surprise.

"Do not harm him," he said. "I see that he may have a purpose, for good or ill, before the end."

Frodo was nearby and shook his head. "He deserves death."

"And many who die deserve life. Do not be too quick to deal out death and judgment," the wizard said. He leaned close to Frodo, so that even Legolas could hardly hear. "I know you fear the Ring, Frodo Baggins, and wish it had not come to you. We all wish that. But all we can do is do well with the time that is given to us."

Frodo stood a little straighter, and so did Legolas. He could feel the dark all around, and the wizard's words helped to cheer him.

As he ran back down the line, Perrin stopped him with a hand on his chest. "What happened?"

Legolas explained, using Gandalf's words. The big man shook his head. "For now, I will wait, for I, too, know the wizard's words." He sighed. "I would be dead without the help of those I once considered enemies."

"Tell me the story," Legolas said, and so in whispers, the big man spoke of his encounters with the Children of the Light, and how they had finally made peace.

"Elves and dwarves also have terrible history," he said. "Yet in the end, the dwarves brought peace to the North, and took a threat from the land. For many years now, we have had peace from the foul work of the goblin."

Gimli came up beside them. "Aye. And without the elves, we would have been overrun, and the Mountain lost." He sighed, unhappy at the admission. "Yet we are a hard people, and do not forget easily." He glared at Legolas and stomped back off, perhaps harder than necessary.

And so on they marched, through twisty tunnels and over open pits, past guard rooms and storerooms and empty chambers, until Legolas was nearly dizzy with the size of the great dwarf city. Reluctantly, he had to agree that the dwarves had cause for pride. The city was vast even beyond the halls of Mirkwood.

Gimli, for his part, simply looked more grim. Legolas could imagine why. He wanted to reassure the dwarf, but was not sure what he could say.

Finally they reached a great open space. "This was the Twenty-Third Hall," Gandalf said. "I will risk a little more light."

Slowly, he increased the light, and Legolas gasped aloud. He could hear Faile take a deep breath behind him, and could almost feel Perrin's shock. Pillars, carved from the living stone, marched on every side, their tops unseen in the gloom, carved in shapes beautiful and fantastic. It was, in it's way, unmatched by any elven work. Not that he would admit that to anyone but himself. He sighed. He could feel the weight of history, for these pillars had very likely been carved in the First Age.

Feeling like a child again, he walked with the others between the pillars, toward a natural light on the far end.

Suddenly Perrin stopped. "Gandalf," he said urgently. "Gandalf, something is coming."

181818

Gandalf had wondered at how the big man, half wolf, would react to such carnage and the remnants of battle. He had marched purposefully, helping his wife and whispering to the others to encourage them. Yet there had been a grimness, too, matched by Aragorn and Boromir. He sighed. They were warriors born, and had the right to be grim, especially after the battle at the gate.

"Do you see what it is?" Gandalf said, feeling grim himself. "Gollum?"

"No, Gandalf," Perrin said slowly. He shut his eyes, as though to feel with his other senses. "It is…dark. And evil. And strong…so strong. For me to feel it here…" he trailed off. "It does not have our trail, not yet, but it is watchful."

Now Gandalf knew his fears were well-founded. Durin's Bane, the worst enemy remaining in Middle-Earth but for the Dark Lord himself, walked the halls of the ancient city. He tried to remain calm. "How far?" he asked, also feeling an echo with the part of himself tied to Valinor.

"I can't tell," he said. "But I do not believe we should linger here. How far to the gate?"

Aragorn had come up now, and Boromir as well, and they listened, hands on their hilts. "We see natural light," he said. "So not far. Down some stairs, and across the bridge of Khazad-Dum. No more than a mile, maybe two."

"Aragorn, you take the lead," he said. "You too, Perrin. I will take the rear." Silently, he began to gather power for the battle to come. For he knew, knew, that there would be battle.

"Lead them on," he said. "I will try and stop the doors."

Aragorn looked at him, and even Perrin raised his head in surprise, his yellow eyes fierce. "Go!" he said. "Swords will be no use against this enemy."

They went, and Gandalf stood before the doors. Gathering his power, he chanted, feeling at last the being coming toward him. Strengthening the spell, he watched the doors shut. Chanting again, he hoped to keep them shut, but he could feel the power building on the other side, hoping to force the doors. Again he chanted, a word of Command, and he saw the doors crumble, the strain too much for the old stone. A huge shadow blocked the light on the other side, and he felt contempt and anger.

Suddenly a bar of white light brighter than the sun flew past him to strike the shadow full on. There was a sensation of shock and pain, and the shadow drew back to reveal a multitude of orcs.

"Go, join your friends," a woman's voice said. "You are powerful, and they will need your strength."

Gandalf wanted to ask questions, but he could feel another power, a sun enclosed in flesh, stronger maybe than his own.

"Will we meet again?" he asked, curious even despite himself.

"We will, Mithrandir," the voice said. "Now go. I cannot hold them forever." A raging wheel of fire flashed out, to break against the orcs. They chattered in pain and drew back, even as another fireball flew, and then another, almost as an elf shooting arrows.

Gandalf looked around for the voice, and could not see its source. Yet the power was still there, bright and clean, untainted by the dark. Deciding to trust his mysterious benefactress, he hastened to join his friends.

181818

Faile had hastened to obey. She was a falcon, fierce in war and fiercer in love, but even she knew her limits. If the wizard told them to hurry, she would. Down a stair she hurried with her husband, than across another stair, toward another stair and down. It began to grow hot, but Aragorn never wavered.

Arrows began to fly, and then were suddenly cut off. She looked back to see the elf give a smile and a grim nod. Perrin was busy protecting her and making sure everyone followed, and she was glad for the elf's shooting.

Suddenly they came into an open space, a platform next to a huge chasm. Across the chasm stretched a single span, without rail or hold. It was a brilliant chokehold, a place where an army could hold.

Already she could hear footsteps, and what sounded like heavy hammers. Was what her husband had felt coming also? They had to cross the bridge. They had to. There was no need to tell her to run, and the woolen trousers made it easy. "Run!" she commanded the hobbits. "Run hard!"

Aragorn gave her a quick glimpse, a look of thanks, as he sped onto the bridge, never breaking stride. The others followed quickly, and she waited, looking toward the last stair, where she hoped to see the wizard.

She saw goblins, instead, and hurried across the bridge, to where she could draw and defend. Perrin had his hammer in his hand, and he waited, growling low in his throat.

"Do you feel what you earlier felt?" she asked. He nodded once, hammer clenched in his blacksmith's hands. The bow of Legolas was already singing, and Perrin, setting down the hammer, joined him, his great bow shooting further, even if the elf was faster. The goblins drew back, then disappeared, even as Faile felt her heart stop. Such terror, such raw evil. Even in the Blight she had not felt such wickedness. She could see it now, a shadow larger than a man, but shaped like one, a flaming sword in one hand, a whip of cords in the other.

She had never seen the elf afraid, but now he was, his face pale. His bow dropped from shaking hands. "A Balrog," he said. "A Balrog of Morgoth."

Faile thought the elf had reason to be afraid. She had read a little of the fallen spirits, and she thought that even an Aes Sedai would not be able to match one. Rand, perhaps, or the Amyrlin, but not one new to the shawl. Where, oh, where, was Gandalf?

Oh, there he was. He was running, running as though his life depended upon it, running for the bridge. The Balrog approached lazily, almost as though he knew the battle was won. Gandalf ran as though there was a battle yet to be fought. Seeing they were all across, he took his place in the center of the bridge, right in the Balrog's path.

"You shall not pass!" he said, and the shadow drew up to its full height, bursting into flame. Faile could feel the heat from where she stood. "You shall not pass!" the wizard said again. "I am a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor. The dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udun!" The crackling power in the air made all of her hair stand up, and she rubbed her arms. She knew there was more happening she could not see.

The Balrog threw back its head and spoke, the rumble of rocks sliding, filled with malice and hate. "Olorin," it said. "I knew you entered my domain. Shall we fight, you and I? Leave, and your life may be spared. Stay and die!" The sword descended, and Gandalf's sword came up in answer. There was a flash that made Faile blink her eyes, and when she could see again, the Balrog's sword was broken and Gandalf still stood tall.

Faile blinked her eyes. Behind the shadow, she almost thought she saw an open gateway. She did not mistake the bar of light that shot out, and she gasped.

"Balefire!" she whispered, even as it met the Balrog. It growled and turned, but the gateway, if gateway it was, had closed. The turn was all the opening the wizard needed. The sword flashed, and the flame coruscated.

"You shall not pass!" the wizard said, and brought the staff down. The stone cracked and fell, and the Balrog with it. It cracked its whip, but the balefire had hurt it, it was clear. It hissed through the air but fell short of the stone.

Gandalf turned, leaning on his staff, and Faile could see that he was utterly exhausted. She moved toward him, only to see the stone crumble at his feet. She could only put a hand over her mouth as the one who had guided them for so long fell into the abyss.

 **A/N: The Balrogs, in the Silmarillion, are described as fallen angels with terrible beauty, not monsters. As angels are creatures of intelligence, I gave it a line, a line of hate at recognizing a brother now on the other side.**

 **Balefire is interesting. It does destroy physical objects, however the Balrog is a spiritual creature. It will hurt it, I think, but not completely destroy it. I have also not revealed who the mysterious benefactress might be. I hope to make that clear soon.**

 **Keep reading. I know so far I am following the books, but I will diverge soon, either this chapter or the next. I just have to find the right point!**


	7. Chapter 7- A Grief Assuaged

A Grief Assuaged

Perrin had seen the battle at the bridge, and marveled at the unexpected help. But as he saw Gandalf fall, grief went through him. Their leader, the one who had been so strong, was now dead. Even if he was more than a man, no man could fall through an abyss and survive.

He turned sorrowfully from the bridge, and took Faile under his arm. She cursed. "Why did we go through the mines?" she snarled. Her grief was different, and all Perrin could do was hold her close and lead her into the sunlight.

He looked around. Everyone was numb and pale, but the hobbits had taken it especially hard. Faile noticed, too, and dried her eyes. She went over to Frodo, and Perrin could hear them talking, though not what was said. She hugged the hobbit tightly, and a little of the color came back to his face.

Perrin turned to Aragorn. "We must lead them. He was your friend, and he would not want his sacrifice to be in vain." Care for the living, Faile had said. He would care for them. "Do you know where to go?"

The tall man pointed to east, where there was a line of green. "Lothlorien, the elven realm. They will give us shelter, at least. It will take us two days to get there."

That was good enough for Perrin. He looked around at the weeping hobbits and the blank faces of the others, and made his voice carry. "Come, all of you. I know you miss Gandalf, but there is still danger. The monster is dead, but there are still orcs to trouble us, and we must go."

"Give them a moment," Boromir protested.

Aragorn spoke now. "Perrin is right. By nightfall, these hills will be crawling with orcs! We must get off the mountain."

No one said anything, but mutely gathered their belongings and began to walk off the mountain. Perrin came back over to his wife and she put an arm around his shoulders. "What were you talking about?" he asked.

"I told him that the Fellowship still stands, and that we will still support him."

Perrin looked around the little group, lost in the vast mountains. Through his grief, he was still thinking. "I saw something I did not expect. I think we may have more help than what we know."

Faile frowned. "Husband, you know as well as I that not all who wield the Power are friends of the Light. The stranger fought the Balrog, but Demandred fought a Worm as well. Was he our friend?" Grief made her voice sharp, and Perrin nodded, chastised by his wife's wisdom. Those of the Sharans who had survived had told of the Forsaken's strange quest.

"Who was that?" Aragorn said.

Perrin hated talking about the Last Battle. "A Forsaken," he said shortly. "Second in power only to the Dragon himself, it was said. He is dead, and that is good enough for him."

Aragorn nodded. "I will ask no more. But it seems someone else from your world is here. If a friend, they will be welcomed. If not, we will stand against them. Someone of the Shadow is not welcome here."

Perrin smiled, though his heart clenched. He could smell Faile's anger, too, a spike that hurt his nose. If a rogue…there were rogue Asha'man, still. Logain had teams to hunt them, but there were still many that were in hiding. And the Black sisters…oh, his heart was so, so angry. Aragorn's words were his as well. But the grief was greater, far greater, a terrible pain in his chest. He was surrounded by it.

After that, there was no more talking. The mountains began to turn into hills by the time the sun set. The sound of water began to be heard, and still Aragorn led them on. The hobbit's tears were now dry, and they marched with no complaint. At least none were wounded.

Soon they approached the stream, chattering in a narrow and steep channel. "Once we cross, we should be safe for this night."

As soon as Perrin touched the water, he felt better. The pain in his feet and his heart seemed to lessen, as though he was back in Rivendell.

"Safe indeed," he said. "Are we in Lorien now?"

"No, but there is a story of the stream. It is a sad story, but it may cheer you, maybe." So around the camp that night, he spoke slowly of Amroth the king and his love, doomed to fail. Yet it was said that Gondor was strengthened by elven blood, and that the lords of Dol Amroth still were noble beyond that of normal men. Aragorn was a born storyteller, and Perrin found himself entranced. It was true, his grief was lessened, and he thought that perhaps a purpose there might be for Gandalf's sacrifice as well.

181818

Faile had also felt the stream, and heard the story. But she had talked with Arwen before they left Rivendell, and decided to force an issue of which she was curious.

"Aragorn, the one you love. She is an elf, you are a man. If you wed, what choice will your children make?"

"Lady Faile, Arwen has chosen the life of a mortal, so our children will be mortal also. Yet they will be long lived, for I am descended in a direct line from the Kings of Numenor."

Boromir spoke softly, almost too softly to hear. "There are still those in Gondor with such blood as well. My father is one."

Aragorn nodded. "Yes. We have met before, and I was impressed with his wisdom and strength of character. He is a great man, your father."

Boromir smiled, and Faile felt some of the tension leave the small fellowship.

Faile knew there might be conflict, for the Stewards would not hand over power easily to Aragorn, even if he was a king in exile, but she was glad that the two men were at least civil. And too, she was bothered by the small lie she had told her husband. She had told Frodo that the fellowship stood with him, but that was not all she had said.

For long she had pondered a choice, for she knew that dangers would multiply as they approached the Black Land. Should there be separation or death, she had promised the Ringbearer she would be his companion into Mordor, even if none were to follow. She alone of all of them had faced something like the Black Land.

No, she would not think of that journey through the Blight. She would not. No, she would. She knew she would. Perrin would have to hold her, and she would let him. She would take his strength to give to another. Would he understand? Would he forgive her, should she have to make that choice? She hoped he would, but for the fate of the world, she would do this deed.

"I hope I do not," she said quietly. And she was also troubled by the fact that there was an Aes Sedai, or an Ashaman, she did not know. Was the danger really so bad the Creator would bring someone who knew the Power? Or were perhaps darker powers at work? She shivered, and Perrin put an arm around her. For that moment, it was enough, and worn out from the journey, she fell asleep and did not dream.

181818

Hiding behind the Mirror of Mists, the stranger watched over the sleeping camp. Such a strange collection of people! For months he had lived in Middle Earth, and still he was astounded. Even the Age of Legends had not had such marvels, though they did not have the arts he was used to.

He sighed. When he had died in battle, he had expected that he would not be reborn. After all, his crimes against the Light had earned him oblivion, not salvation. But apparently there was work for him yet.

He had been surprised to not feel the presence of the Dark One. But then, that was the Last Battle in which he had died. He knew it had been. So his old master was now sealed, was he? His natural nobility had come back to him, and he had decided to use the second chance he had been given. He took the name of Ada, or father in the tongues of the immortal elves.

That had been a surprise, too, and he felt anger at not knowing. A whole race of immortals who had not sold their soul to achieve eternal life. It had been that which had made him interested once again in the Light. Why had he not known? Worlds beyond the stars, things he had not seen even in the Ways or the Portal Stones!

He had become a teller of stories, and his fame had slowly grown. None on this world knew the history of his, and he refused to tell his part in that history. In return, he had received stories in return, of the first Enemy and his Lieutenant, the Jewels and the Rings.

Elan had once told him that there were Mirror Worlds. He had scoffed, but it seemed his old friend had been true after all. But if this was a Mirror World, it was a world dying. The long wars had left huge stretches of wilderness where none dwelt. He had used Traveling to explore, from the frozen wastes of Forochel to the jungles of Far Harad, from Rhun to the shores of the Great Sea, and had sobered at the long war that seemed to be about to reach its final end.

He was not yet sure he was accepted by the Creator, or would ever be, but he still had all his knowledge of war and battle. Perhaps he could help in some small way. So he had sworn to become the knife in the dark, the assassin who could strike and melt away, using shadows as his cloak. He knew he could not touch the one in the Dark Tower, but his servants would feel his sting.

He had heard of other terrors, of course, and wondered if Sauron might use them. That had led him to Moria. He was powerful, and perhaps he could kill this ancient demon that even the fierce dwarves feared. So it was he had witnessed the company and discovered that there were those who had power here, too. He had heard the words of the monster and the other's challenge, and his noble sacrifice.

Following them, he had seen their grief and heard the words of their leader. And to see the Blacksmith! So he had been pulled as well? But they needed protection. He had shepherded his own nation, as best he might with darkness inside him. So he would protect this company that carried the hope of the world.

181818

Gimli did not want to go to the elven wood. He was barely growing to like the elvish princeling, and now he would be surrounded by a whole nation of them. Still, he remembered Gandalf's words. "I ask you to be friends." Could he not try, at least for the old wizard?

He tightened his grip on his axe, trying to hide his grief. All dwarves loved the Grey Pilgrim. He had given them help and helped to reclaim their ancient homeland. Now he was lost, helping to reclaim another.

"Ah, Mithrandir," he murmured. "Why did you have to leave us?" He swore his sacrifice would not be in vain. At least Durin's Bane was now no more.

He turned to see the King and Queen from afar. Perrin was a dwarf at heart, a king with a hammer, a worthy man and warrior, and his wife was fierce and strong to match him. He was glad those two had been sent to aid in their struggle. They were quiet now, though, and he could feel their grief.

Soon they approached the eves of the wood. He found his feet dragging, but he forced himself to enter, the last to do so.

"It is said that there is a witch here," he said quietly. "An elf of great power. None can escape her spell."

The young king looked unconcerned. "Nothing here will harm us," he said quietly.

 _Come_ , came a female voice, filled with laughter. _Come, Gimli son of Gloin, and see who I really am._

He was about to respond, but he was stopped by six arrows at his chest. He turned and saw the rest of them were surrounded. Perrin still looked at ease, and nodded to the guards. They nodded back, and suddenly Gimli found the arrows removed. Aragorn also smiled.

"Haldir," he said in greeting.

"Aragorn," said the head of the guards. "We have been expecting you and your company. Come, it is not safe to linger here. We will take you further into the forest."

Gimli stood resolute, and Boromir spoke for him. "Is there no other way?" the tall captain asked. "We have come many strange ways."

Haldir seemed to understand, and hesitated for a moment before shaking his head. "No," he said finally. "The Lord and Lady will want to meet you."

"Then let us be off," Gimli said gruffly. "The sooner we are out of the forest, the better I will feel." Legolas made a choked sound behind him, but Gimli didn't care for his feelings. He didn't like woods, and never would.

181818

Galadriel watched the company enter the forest, and felt the Ring draw close. It was a shadow in her bright land, and already she was tempted. Celeborn held her hand. "Come the footsteps of doom," he said. "Stay strong, my love."

Galadriel nodded as she watched the company march. She also noticed a shadow that was not a shadow enter after them. This shadow was familiar to her. She had seen it for several months, crossing Middle-Earth, to discover and explore. She did not think it evil, but it was proud and determined, a noble character much like the men of Gondor, but far stronger and more powerful. She did not think even she could match it, should it come to war.

"I must see their hearts," she said. "I will test them. I do not seek to control them."

Through the day and the next she prepared her tests. Aragorn she knew and respected, and of Legolas she also knew. The others were unknowns to her, and any of them could doom the quest.

On the afternoon of the second day, Haldir approached her. "They are coming," he said, and then withdrew.

Aragorn was the first to enter, followed by one she did not know. He looked like Tuor when he was young, when all the word was new, a big man with air of a warrior. Authority was in his brow, and yet he bowed low.

"For the first time, I see the elves of the Light," he said. The tall woman who she saw loved him also bowed and murmured something…in Quenya? She did not think mortals still knew the language of Aman, and was pleased. These, then, were the strangers, the ones sent to help.

Next came the Steward's son, proud and strong, like all the men of Gondor. He bowed too in respect before rising.

The hobbits followed in a clatter of feet, and with them, the Ring. The Ring…she forced herself to look at them, and saw grief written plainly in their faces.

Finally came the elf and the dwarf, walking together as none had in an Age. Both were frowning, but they both bowed together.

That was all. Where was Mithrandir? Where was the Grey Pilgrim? Celeborn spoke her thoughts. "Where is Gandalf, for I much desire to speak with him."

Galadriel could see it. "He fell," she whispered. The dwarf raised his head to meet her eyes.

"He fell fighting a Balrog of Morgoth" The air crackled at the name of the Great Enemy. "I am sorry, my lady."

Celeborn looked up sharply. "I should not have allowed the dwarf."

Galadriel's voice was soothing. She knew her husband had memories of Doriath and the murder of Elu Thingol. If anyone should dislike the dwarves, it was him. But now was not the time. _My love_ , she said, _he is not like the Dwarves you once knew and trusted to your hurt._

The dwarf hung his had, and she felt no anger from him, only grief. "Do not let the sorrow of Moria fill your heart, Gimli son of Gloin. For all the world is in peril." The grief shifted to wary surprise, and then pleasure.

She hated to do it, but she had to know. She felt the had the measure of them all, and now took each one in turn. Putting her tests into their minds, she saw them all drop their heads. They had no reason for shame, not even if they were tempted. Was she not, as well? She was proud that all refused the temptations, but had to give one more warning.

"The Quest stands on the edge of a knife, but will remain as long as all the Company stay true. Now go and rest." The Company nodded, then left, preceded by Haldir, who would prepare their lodgings.

Her husband sighed. "I should not have been so hard on the dwarf. He is true, one of the best of his kind. Are they all resolved?"

Galadriel nodded. 'We should prepare gifts for them."

"And what of the other one?"

"I have no knowledge of what to do, but…I believe we should let him lie. He is here for a reason too. We should not challenge him, not at this time. He has not entered the forest, and I believe will do us no harm."

Celeborn nodded. "As you wish, wife. I will trust your wisdom."

Galadriel just hoped she could trust herself. As long as the Ring stayed within Lorien, the temptation to seize and use it would only grow.

181818

From a high tower on an everlasting whiteness, a couple looked out on the world. The male was dressed all in blue, and held a blue scepter. On his arm perched an eagle, and his eyes pierced the distant airs. By his side stood his lady, a striking figure with brilliant eyes and an air of pure light.

"Is all in place?" the lady asked.

"Yes," said the man. "All is as it should be. There will be pain before the end, but also great glory and redemption."

"Our time is ending soon," the Lady said. "After this, the old will pass away, and the Time of Men will come. We now look beyond the Music."

"Then look we will," the man said. "I will not give up my charge, not yet. I will still watch, and nudge where I may. That is still permitted to me."

"And as long as the stars continue to shine, my light will be over Middle-Earth." The lady spoke with finality and turned to leave. The man, though, still stood, watching. Since before the Sun and Moon he had watched, and was fascinated by these new developments. For his wife was right. The Music that once bound him was now ending. What would Men do, when they were no controlled by fate? Would they love, or would they hate?

 **A/N: Here is the chapter. I am not terribly happy with it, but it is done. I may raise some questions, but the answers will come in time. I promise!**

 **Some may raise eyebrows at the inclusion of a Darkfriend, but for all his evil, this particular Darkfriend had a noble core I do not think he ever truly forgot and that he is beginning to remember. Some readers may figure out who he is, but I would like to keep my characters in suspense a little longer, and my other readers as well.**

 **The identity of the man and the lady in the last section should be fairly obvious, I think. I also think their thoughts are in character with one of their kind.**


	8. Chapter 8- Many Waters

Many Waters

Frodo smiled at Sam. It was a sad smile, but he was glad he could still smile. He felt refreshed and calm, and the pull of the Ring had lessened. So had his grief, sitting as he was in a timelesss world. Legolas, for once, was with them, listening quietly to the hidden elven choirs above them.

"A lament for Gandalf," the elf said quietly.

"What do they say?" Sam asked.

"I cannot say. For me, the grief is still too near."

"They should say something about his fireworks," Sam muttered. Frodo smiled too, remembering the great delights that Gandalf had always brought to the Shire, Well, maybe not always…but close enough. He also had to smile at Sam, who was a simple hobbit looking after his master and enjoying simple pleasures. Not that he could say all that, of course. Not to him. Sam just was.

"Master Elrond and Bilbo both spoke of his fireworks," Faile whispered, quietly. "I wish I would have been at Bilbo's goodbye party." She had come up quietly. For one of the Big People, she could move like a shadow. Not so her husband. Frodo had long since lost his fear of them, for they had proved loyal and steadfast, and he thrilled to Faile's promise.

It seemed someone else had also heard what had not been said, for the quiet steps of the elven queen could soon be heard approaching. She motioned, and they followed, away from their pavilion toward the bottom of the elven city. Frodo was curious, and he felt Sam behind him, as well as the quiet steps of Queen Faile. Soon enough they reached a small clearing, on which was a small pedestal and fountain.

"What is it?" Faile asked. "Why did you bring us here?" Frodo wondered as well, but he could feel the Ring growing, pulsing against something else.

"I wanted you to look in my Mirror," Galadriel said, taking some water from the fountain and pouring it into the stand. "If you choose to."

"What will I see?" Frodo said. He had seen the wisdom of Elrond and the fighting of Legolas, but this was something different. It prickled on his skin. It almost seemed as though he could hear a whisper on the air, here in the center of elven power, and he looked harder at the elven queen.

"It may show the past, the present, and even the future. Not even I know all." Galadriel's voice was quiet. "It is your choice to make, Frodo, Ringbearer. Sam and Faile, I know you protect him. I would have you look at well, if you choose to."

There was a small bench, and Frodo climbed up on it to look into the Mirror. At first he saw only the stars, and then the stars went out. He saw his childhood in Brandybuck Hall after his parents had died, and then his coming to live with his uncle Bilbo. After that he saw more and more, a succession of images that he knew related to his life with the Ring: an old man on a twisty mountain pass, Strider fighting a terrible figure, a ring of fire that flashed past his eyes, a explosion of flame from some distant place, a single crown, and then darkness. Slowly, the darkness lightened, and then grew into a single Eye, more terrible than all that had come before. Yellow and wreathed in flame, the pupil opened into nothing. Now he heard the call, terrible and irresistable, and the water began to smoke.

Sudden hands seized him and dragged him away, and the connection was broken. He turned eyes to Faile, and looked up at her weakly.

Galadriel spoke from where she sat, hands on her knees. "I know what you saw, for it is also in my mind. You see, I see the mind of Sauron, and all his purposes concerning the elves, but still my mind is closed." She held up her left hand toward the East in denial, and for the first time, Frodo could see something on her finger. He suddenly knew what it was. Before he could speak, though, Faile spoke, hard and cold.

"Did he see the Eye?" she demanded. "He must have."

"Peace," Galadriel said, and now her voice was just as hard. "Did you think he would not have dangers, Faile, Queen of Saldaea? I know all I need to know of you, and though your heart is steadfast, do not be too quick to protect. He chose this."

"I did," Frodo said. He knew Galadriel was right, but it was suddenly too much. "You wear one of the Three. You can take the One as well!"

Galadriel smiled, and it was not a nice smile. "I tested you at our first meeting," she said. "Now I am avenged, for I will admit my heart has desired this. Know, Frodo, that for three ages of the world I have fought the long defeat. For you to offer the Ring of Power to me…"

She suddenly stood, and a light, terrible and beautiful, shone out from her. "In the place of the Dark Lord you will have a queen! Beautiful as diamonds, harder than steel, stronger than the foundations of the earth. All will love me and despair!" The glow grew until Frodo had to blink his eyes, then shut them. He cowered, now seeing who Galadriel was, who she could be.

Suddenly the sense of danger stopped, and he felt long fingers lift his head. "Open your eyes, Frodo." It was a soft command, and he carefully opened them. Galadriel stood before him, and her eyes were sad. "I passed the test," she said. "I will diminish, and go into the West, and remain Galadriel." She closed her hand gently around the Ring. "Keep it safe, and I will give you what help I can."

Frodo suddenly felt exhausted, and he felt Faile catch him and lay him down. "Watch him," she said to Sam. "I will also look."

"Are you sure?" Frodo asked.

"I am," Faile said.

181818

Faile had seen many things in her twenty years of life, but this…this was new. Of course, she had not faced the Dark One fully, as the Dragon had. This innocent halfling had looked full into the heart of Sauron's power. No wonder he was exhausted. "Never again," Faile muttered. To Mordor he would have to go, but never to look in Sauron's face…or what passed for a face.

Leaning carefully over the water, she too saw the stars, but then the lights went out. She saw several images of her childhood in the courts of Saldaea, then meeting Perrin. Over all was a vast shadow that then turned to light. After that the images changed. She saw a tear in the sky, and light more blinding than anything of the Power, the world of her birth held in that light as stars swirled.

Then she saw herself and the two hobbits between two huge figures. One was a sword, dark with blood, but shining bright, the other a blackness that spoke in whispers. She could see them fighting each other, but they did not look down to see them caught. She wondered if the three of them might be trampled. Over all was a fiery Eye, and she looked up at Sauron. She felt no horror, but only contempt.

"What did you see?" Galadriel asked. "Your way in unclear to me."

Faile sighed. If the Mirror spoke true, what she feared would come to pass. "Good or not, I don't know."

"My spirit will be with you," Galadriel said. "Tomorrow, you will depart."

Faile turned to her, curious. "In the mines, when Gandalf fell…we saw magic, or the work of the Power, from our own world. We did not know if it was good or evil, for not all who work with power belong to the Light."

The elven queen smiled. "I believe he is not here for you, but for himself. More than that I do not know, except that he does not belong to the Enemy."

A bloody, bright sword. Faile nodded. She thought she knew who he might be, now. "I'll watch your master while you look in the Mirror," she said to Sam. "Then we will make ready to depart."

181818

Perrin had not been able to find Faile the night before he left, but he was little worried. He trusted the elves and their strange, powerful queen. Perhaps she was talking with Galadriel herself, gaining knowledge.

She came back the day they were to leave, quiet and pensive. There was love there, but also wariness and…fear? She had not been afraid in a long time. "What is it?" he asked. "I can smell your fear."

She smiled up at him and looked in his eyes. "We have already faced many dangers, and one took the strongest among us. We are leaving the last safe place before the Black Land itself. You know me, husband, but…I do admit to a little fear."

"Facing someone who is immortal and immaterial should give us some caution," he agreed soberly. "Did Galadriel tell you more about our stranger?"

"What she told was simply impressions," Faile said grumpily. "She thought that he had nothing to do with us, or us with him, and that he was no Friend of the Dark."

"I will be watchful anyway," Perrin said, folding his blankets.

"A wise idea," Aragorn said, coming up to them. "Even the Wise do not see all ends, and as the new leader of the Fellowship, I encourage you to all be on your guard."

"I am surprised you would say such things about the grandmother of your fiance," Faile said cheekily. This brought a laugh from the Ranger and broke some of the tension. Perrin laughed too.

They had just finished eating their breakfast when they were summoned by none other than Haldir. He had stayed on the northern borders, to prevent revenge from Moria, and Perrin was surprised to see him. "My lord Celeborn wishes to remind you of the River that lies on the border of the Wood, and offers the gift of boats."

Aragorn nodded, and Perrin heard the gratitude in his words. "I will accept," he said.

So it was that soon all was in order. In the first boat were Aragorn, Frodo and Sam. In the second were Boromir, Merry and Pippin. Legolas and Gimli, now fast friends, were in the third, and Faile and Perrin with his sharp eyes brought up the rear. Perrin was not used to smaller boats, nor was Faile, used as she was to the great trading ships in Maradon, but they proved easy to handle, having, as all things in Lorien, the touch of the elves, and were light enough to easily carry if needed.

Aragorn led them on a trial up the Silverlode, and as they watched, a swan ship, beautiful as the stars, came around a corner. At the prow stood Galadriel herself, singing in Quenya, and commanded that they come alongside.

"I have held myself apart to this moment, but it is not fitting that we should separate without a farewell meal."

Aragorn assented to this, and soon they were on the shore, enjoying one last meal at the corner where the Silverlode and the Anduin met. After, Galadriel rose. "We have gifts to aid you," she said. Perrin bowed, for though he was a king, he knew a greater authority, and knew that to not accept would be dishonor.

He watched first as Aragorn received a scabbard for his sword, set with runes and silver. Boromir received a belt of gold for his waist, and Merry and Pippin belts of silver. Legolas received a bow of the Galadrim, stronger and larger than his own, and Gimli, a single strand of Galadriel's golden hair as a memento. To Sam was a box of blessed earth with a single mallorn seed, and to Frodo, the captured light of the evening star.

All seemed to be practical and blessed gifts, but Perrin and Faile were not forgotten. Perrin received a tall helm, silver and black with a high cheek guard, set with mithril, and new strings for his bow, stronger than even his own. He bowed low in thanks. Faile received a fine set of knives, which she looked at appreciatively.

"Perrin and Faile, we did not think we had gifts for a king and queen. However, we found in our armory a helmet made for Elros, the first king of Numenor, who looked a little like you, given into the care of Elrond his brother when he died. I hope it fits. And these knives, Faile, were made for my brother Angrod by his uncle the High King, Fingolfin of the Noldor, and came to me after his death in the Sudden Flame. They are wound about with spells for the bane of darkness." Faile shifted uneasily, but accepted. What was with that spike of what could almost be called shame?

At hearing that, Perrin tried to give back the helm, but Galadriel was insistent. "Take it. You are a great man in your own right, and should not be denied." Her tone was gentle but firm. "You are a king as well."

Reluctantly, Perrin took it. It seemed to whisper to him of brightness and strength, and he was reminded of the great Numenoreans of whom he had read, Earendil and Elros and Palantir and Elendil the Tall who wounded even Sauron in battle. He bowed low, but the gifts were not yet done.

To all of them were given cloaks that surrounded them so that they could not be seen, clipped with a single silver brooch. Perrin was glad for the warmth and the protection, for the cloak he had brought from Rivendell had been nearly ruined in the battle at the Gates of Moria. He wanted to ask what fabric they were made from, but he refrained, looking at the sudden sadness in the queen's eyes.

"Now here is where we depart. I hope to see you all again, and all the blessings I can give you go with you."

With a heavy heart, Perrin reboarded the boat with his wife, and together, they turned their back on that golden land, to the accompaniment of singing from the elven queen, high, remote and beautiful.

181818

Sam felt embarressed. He felt like he had gone and messed everything up.

First was looking in the Mirror. After what Mister Frodo and the Queen had seen, he had been nervous. He was already nervous, being around the elves. These elves seemed even more like elves than Mister Elrond, but…he was nervous. He had looked anyway and seen the destruction of The Shire. It didn't seem to help that he had to make a choice- stay with Frodo or go home. He knew what he had to do, of course. But it was hard.

He wiped away a tear that had gathered in his eye and paddled along. He felt embarressed at not asking about rope. Most of all, he felt embarressed that he had not see the utter exhaustion in Frodo's face. He had sworn to protect him and guide him, and here he was, not seeing the signs of the Ring's foothold.

What could he do? He was only a gardener, not a great warrior like Strider or a wizard like Gandalf. "Well, I can be his friend," he whispered. "I will be his friend."

Frodo put a hand on his shoulder, and he nearly jumped. He turned to see his friend and master smile. It was a sad smile, but still a smile. Frodo was still there, and Sam would die to see it so.

181818

Azaghal marched down the coast, his host behind him. He remembered when he was a dwarfling, and he had been raised on stories of his famous forefather, the great chieftain of Nogrod, who had fought beside the elves in the Sudden Flame. There the dwarves had learned about dragons. Not soon enough. Well, Glaurung and his dark master were now dead, and the last of the Great Worms were no more.

Now that was a great dwarf. He was a lesser one, maybe. The Dwarves of the Blue Mountains were not what they were, but they were still strong enough to fight, or so he hoped. Besides, the lads were restless in their caves and ached for a battle. Honor demanded that they help those who helped them, and the elves had helped them reclaim the Lonely Mountain. Yes, he remembered Thorin and his quest.

These thoughts were in his head as he marched down the coast. With them marched some of the elves from the Havens. There was bad blood, yes, but not enough for this fight. Ah, curse the Accursed, and a scourge on Sauron the Cruel. Oh, yes, he would fight. Two thousand dwarven axes would drink much orc blood.

Agni, his second, gave a clear whistle. "Tharbad ahead, m'lord."

"It's about time," the dwarf chieftain muttered. "Is there anyone among the ruins?"

"Yes, there is a small garrison of soldiers. They did not see us among the stones, but they will see our host."

Azaghal sighed. Down through Enedwaith, the lands had been empty but for birds and beasts. Now they were approaching settled lands. What would the lord of the city do? Well, they had to meet. "You and I will go down. The host will stay in the hills until we are given permission to pass."

So it was that they were soon ensconced in a restored building down by the old bridge. Menaldur, the captain of the soldiers, was a reasonable man, and had hosted them as best as he might. Azaghal did not begrudge him the poor lodgings, for he had seen far worse.

"My lord Galagil will want to know an army marches on his lands," the tall man said. "He is the Lord of the Langstrand, in whose lands I dwell. I am sure that his response to us will be swift."

Azaghal nodded. "While we wait, we can repair the bridge for our safe passage. It will short work for us, if we all help."

Menaldur smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. "I know of the dwarves. They never offer anything for free. What would you ask in return?"

Azaghal knew the time had come. "I bring a message for your lord and for the Steward who sits in his city of stone." He handed over the parchment, and Menaldur read it slowly. His eyes widened.

"Boy!" he said, and a servant ran up to him. "Take this message to the dove cotes and have the master copy it out. Two copies, in case on does not make it. Have it sent to Galagil."

The page ran off. Menaldur sighed. "This is help we did not look for. The valor of the dwarves is unmatched, it is said, and they bear up in battle well. In truth, Denethor did not desire this outpost, for the danger is in the East." He stroked his graying beard. "But he allowed a small company, in case of danger from the wilds. Who knows what might dwell in the empty lands?"

"And now you are here to meet me," Azaghal said. "We have our grudge against Sauron already, and would fight with or without the Steward's permission. I do not think he would stop us in any case. But if he does agree, there will be trade between North and South. The bridge will have to be rebuilt, and why not do it now?"

"Indeed," Menaldur sighed. "I hope the Steward sees it so. He sees only Mordor, I am afraid, and not any allies that may come to aid him."

Azaghal snorted. A good dwarf looked at every side. "And how do you know so much of his mind?" he said.

Menaldur sighed. "I was a captain in the Tower Guard, and helped guard meetings of the Council. I heard more than perhaps I should have, and decided to come where I might do some good. If I were a leader, I would allow you and your host, but I am not."

"I wouldn't want you to lose your head over this matter," the delf said. "I will wait. I have no purpose but to fight Sauron, and I believe it is here that the stroke will fall the hardest."

181818

Wrapped in the Mist of Mirrors, with the Power helping him to hear, the Wanderer had to agree. All he had read showed a special hatred of Sauron for the Men of the West. This captain was a wise man, and the dwarf leader just as wise.

As for the Steward…he snorted, but he knew he had no room to judge. Had he not been blinded with his hatred for Lews Therin, so that he could see almost nothing else? He could feel the tension of the small army surrounding Tharbad. Small but strong. He had observed their march, and this new race was worth ten of men, even the fabled men of the Borderlands. They would give good account of themselves, for certain. Had he faced them in The Last Battle, his challenge would have been far greater.

He smiled as the dwarf leader and captain settled down for the night, and the dwarves settled outside the city. He wanted to Travel back to the Fellowship, now paddling down the River, but a sudden prickling made him look up. There was someone else here, someone who knew the Power. Who? If someone else from his world had come to this, he would have known.

"Ah, Barid Bel," a smooth voice said. "Observing instead of lashing out? How original of you. You know, I was wrong for once. Maybe you are unpredictable."

He knew that voice. He turned to see who he expected. Dark eyes glittered in a dark face, and he looked down at hands that could heal or kill equally, though he had seen more of the killing. Even among his own kind, she was a legend to be feared. "Ah, Nemane," he said. "I would say I am surprised to see you, and it would even be true. Why are you here?"

"For the same reason as you," she said. "To fight."

"And I suppose that you will not fight for the light? Our deaths make us new if we choose to be." He looked at her and shook his head. "No, I did not think so."

"I have not forgotten my oath to the Dark One," she said, and now the glitter in her eyes looked dangerous. "We worked together, once."

"Once," he said. This was a very big problem. "I sealed my fate at Shayol Ghul along with you. Would the Light accept me now, even if I wished to return? It was idle talk, nothing more."

"The Lord of the Earth wishes to sow chaos," the woman once known as Nemane Boanna said. If she believed him or doubted him, she showed no signs. "A Mirror World, indeed. The hatred of the East and the South against the West is strong. Perhaps I can use that hatred, and use you. I heard what you did on the other side of the Aiel."

"I heard what you did among the Seanchan," the Wanderer said. He respected her for that. To bring the greatest nation in his own world to its knees? "I do not think you will need my help. Besides, I have my own commission. It is not to my liking, but perhaps one day it will bear its own fruit."

Semirhage nodded slowly. "You were here first. It makes sense you would already have orders. Would you share them with me?"

"Sauron is much like our old master," he said. "We must not know each other's business. But I assure you that I will not fight with you, as some of our…former friends did."

Semirhage tossed her head. "Then there is nothing left to say." The vertical slash of a gateway opened next to her, showing the image of harsh desert sand, and she made to step through it. She could not resist having the final word. "Soon, Barid Bel, there will be war, and the Dark will cover all."

'There will be war, but I do not think the Dark will prevail," Barid Bel whispered when she had left. Carefully, he set a ward around the dwarves, the strongest he could manage. He would now know if there was ever an attack on this army, even if he was in Mordor itself. Then he opened his own Gateway to the Great River, to see what might be done to protect the small company that carried the fate of all.

A/N: **Semirhage was…an unpleasant woman, shall we say. Her reputation was quite deserved, in fact, her reputation was well understated. But two can play the games of power, and this particular gentleman is quite good at strategy.**

 **Let the fun begin! Here is where things will begin to change, as these two powerful characters leave their mark on Middle-Earth.**


	9. Chapter 9- The Breaking

The Breaking

Had it been any other day, Perrin would have been happy. The sun was bright and strong, and though the forests that passed by were not the bright of Lorien, they still broke the passage of the river and provided shade when they camped.

Yet he was unhappy. For days, a shadow had been growing on his mind and creeping through his dreams. Every time he went into the wolf dream to try and find it, it seemed to creep away from him. Yet he knew there was something there, following them.

Legolas felt it too. Aragorn was wary, pushing them on at night, but the set of his shoulders was slumped, for there was a very real conflict in the Fellowship. Boromir wanted them to go to his city and regroup, but Perrin had very real doubts about them being able to leave, especially if Denethor found out they had the Ring. He might see it only as a weapon to use against Sauron- and Perrin could not even blame him.

Yet he accepted the story of the elves, and their wisdom, for they had been there when the Ring had shown its nature. They had seen its cost. So had he, in the ruins of Hollin. No, he would not support such a plan. The tension was growing with every mile, though, and he feared what it might do.

Finally, one cold night, the shadow caught up with them. They had just camped when Perrin felt a feeling of cold and terror he had not felt even with the Balrog. Then, he had felt fear and a sense of dark majesty. This was simply a cold emptiness that reminded him of an open grave. A shadow rose up to try and swallow the stars, and Legolas shot in one smooth motion. Perrin's own arrow as but an instant behind. The shots were true, and the shadow fell away. There was a huge splash upriver, and a single cry of mourning.

Faile stood. "Do the Ringwraiths now fly?"

Aragorn was silent, but he raised his head. "I think they do." He clapped both Perrin and Legolas on the back. "Good shooting, friends. Now we have to be more careful. We now know orcs patrol the eastern shore."

"It's not the orcs I fear," he said. "There's something else."

"What?" Aragorn asked.

Perrin decided to force the issue so that Aragorn didn't have to. "I fear the shadow within our own company." Faile put a hand on his arm and shook her head, but he shook off her arm. "Tell me the truth, Boromir, and tell me now. If we were to go to Minas Tirith with the Ring, would we ever leave again?"

Boromir stood, face flushed with anger. "Do you think so little of my people?" he said. "We do not kidnap or traffic in slaves. Not even the elves think so!" His voice rose.

Faile spoke. "For three thousand years my people have held back the Trolloc hordes. Nearly as long as Gondor has been a nation. But never have we been as desperate as your nation is now. You yourself wanted to use the Ring to level Mordor, and accepted the correction of Elrond. Will your father accept such wisdom, Boromir? He is a noble man, I have no doubt, but desperate men can do desperate things."

Boromir sighed. "I see your meaning, Queen Faile, and yours, King Perrin, though perhaps your words were ill-chosen." Perrin nodded his head in apology, and Boromir clapped him on the shoulder, his way of showing forgiveness.

"But you were right to force the issue. My father is as you say, and would expect me to bring back the Ring to him. If such warriors were in his army, he would be even more pleased. I simply…I love my nation as you love yours. It is dying, and my father looks to me to make things right."

Aragorn nodded. "And we will help you as we are able. But all will be for naught if the Ring is not destroyed. What did the Lady show you, Boromir?"

"She offered me the Ring," Boromir said in a whisper. "She knew my temptation well. I know it must be destroyed." He hung his head. "If I stay, I may end up betraying you. I must go, alone if need be."

"Not alone," came a new voice. Perrin looked at Faile. He knew that voice. Unconsciously, his hand tightened on his hammer.

181818

Aragorn also felt wary. He had seen a lot of the enemy and met his spies, and the man who stepped into the firelight did not inspire confidence. He might be called handsome, if not for the scar across his cheek, and his mouth was set in a downturn. But it was his eyes that grabbed him. They were dark, dark as black midnight. His whole figure spoke of tightly controlled strength and anger.

Aragorn had asked for the descriptions of all of the Forsaken from Faile and Perrin, aware that at least one user of the Power had come also the way they had. It seemed clear who it must be. "Are you the one known as Demandred?" he asked. There was no point drawing his sword. If it was he, he could kill them where they stood, as easily as blinking.

"Barid Bel. I have embraced my old name again." There was a flicker in those eyes that might have been regret. It was gone as soon as it appeared. "I was once a Chosen, what Perrin would call a Forsaken."

"Have you claimed to return to the light?" Perrin asked. "There have been some Darkfriends who have turned, though I have never heard of a Forsaken doing so." He seemed skeptical, and Aragorn was too. This man had done more against the Light than almost any other.

"I no longer serve the Dark One," the man said. "Neither do I serve the Light. The Light! I am not sure I would ever be accepted again by the Creator." He said it as a simple statement of fact.

"Why should I trust you?" Aragorn said. "Perrin and Faile have told me much of you and your actions. You were the general for the Dark, and nearly won his victory."

The mouth tightened. "Semirhage, the Lady of Pain, now walks in Middle Earth." Demandred almost spat the name. "She too has been reborn, but her heart is unchanged. She serves Sauron and has orders from him. We met in the ruins of old Tharbad…and I escaped by lying to her face."

Perrin drew a deep breath. Aragorn did as well. Though Perrin had spoken much of the other Forsaken, he was reluctant to speak of her. When he did, Aragorn wished he had not. She sounded a lady crueler than any orc, cruel as the Accursed himself.

"I cannot stay here," Barid Bel said. "The Ring draws me as well, as all objects of power will. I could have it, and none of you could stop me. I must leave. I will leave with Boromir, if he will have my company, and we will protect his city."

"I would trust him," Faile said suddenly. "He did not lie even when he served the Dark One. I believe he speaks the truth here."

"Truth can also be used a weapon," Aragorn said, but then fell silent. This man had turned to the Dark from jealousy and desperation, not evil or malice. There might still be honor in him.

The man who called himself Barid Bel spoke softly. "Boromir, do you trust me? Your leader speaks truth, but it is your city."

Boromir nodded slowly. "I will go with you. It could be the Powers sent you, as they sent the Queen and King. Let Aragorn go with the Ring. He may be stronger than I." He looked at him, and Aragorn felt the look pierce to the soul. "Yet I hope to see the return of the King."

"I will prove that claim someday," Aragorn promised. He felt warmed through at Boromir's praise and loyalty, and bowed to the shorter man. "You have my word, and that I will not break."

"I know you know little of magic. Even in my world, it was feared, or at least respected." Barid Bel spoke. "Do not be alarmed at what I do." He twisted his hands, and the air split. On the other side could be seen the green fields of the Pelennor and the white of the City of Kings. Aragorn suddenly knew with the foresight of his race that he would one day stand there.

"What a weapon," Boromir whispered. "Is it safe?"

"It is. Come." He stepped through, and Boromir followed. Without a word, the gateway folded in on itself and winked shut.

"So goes Boromir, the son of Denethor," Aragorn said. "May the Valar watch over him, and may Barid Bel be truly of the light."

"I have known of some who repented," Perrin said. "Not many, but some. I have seen men not much better, with hatred in their bones, change into friends. I hope Demandred will be that someday."

181818

Faile knew her husband spoke from bitter experience, but she was far more sceptical. The only good Forsaken was a dead Forsaken. "He deserves death," she said. "Even if he has changed his ways, he deserves death still."

"Yes, he does," Frodo said. He had not spoken through the whole exchange, but now he stood. "I agree his former deeds deserve death. But it could be that this man who has done so much evil will also have his cure. It could be he was sent to Middle Earth for nothing else. Should we keep it from him?"

"I also agree," Aragorn said. "The Valar have a hand in this, I think. We would do well not to cross them. And if he truly is still of the Dark, even he cannot stand against the whole Tower Guard." He sighed. "Let us put it out of our minds. We still have to cross the rapids and come to the Falls of Rauros, and we will need our strength."

Later that night, it fell to Faile and Aragorn to have the watch. "You worry," the queen said.

"I do. There is still danger on our road. Perhaps I should not have let Boromir go. He is a valiant man."

"He would have tried for the Ring soon or late. It was beginning to drive him.." Faile spoke firmly. "Does it tempt you?"

"Yes, at times. But I made a promise to Frodo. If by life or death I can protect him, I will."

"So will I," Faile said slowly. The Fellowship had already lost one member. Would it lose another? She felt sympathy for the king in exile. "Sleep if you can. I will watch."

Aragorn laid down, and Faile pondered her own decisions. The flying Ringwraith had been dealt with, and thank the Light for that. The other danger, the danger within the Fellowship, was also gone. That left the orcs and whatever other monsters Sauron might have.

"They are coming," Perrin said. She nearly jumped, but Perrin held her still. Her husband never ceased to surprise her. For a man that looked like a tree trunk, he could move very quietly. "But not from Sauron. He is still unaware of us, I think. The White Wizard sends them."

Faile had nearly forgotten about him. The dupe of the Dark Lord, a Forsaken in his own right. "How many?"

"Enough," Perrin said grimly. "Two hundred, and they are the size of Boromir. Thy run fast, too. We will not outrun them, not even on the boats."

Faile knew now the doom that was coming. "How long do we have?" she asked quietly.

"Three days, maybe." Perrin was quiet. "We will have to fight together. I will tell Aragorn when he wakes. He is still our leader, and he knows the land better than us."

181818

Frodo was alarmed at Perrin's news. The man with the spirit of a wolf was never troubled, but there was trouble in his voice. "I saw the camps. They rest little and eat even less. The whips of the fallen wizard drive them."

Aragorn nodded. "Then we will have to make a stand, soon or late. We can at the Falls of Rauros, I believe. The islands before the Falls are in the middle of the River, and we can defend there if it comes to a fight. But first we must make it over the rapids of Sarn Gebir."

Getting over the rapids was not as difficult as it looked, though there were some close calls before a portage was found. Now the current quickened, and Aragorn smiled as the River carried them along, laying his paddle in the boat and encouraging Frodo to do the same. The River narrowed, and Frodo had a moment of alarm. But only for a moment, for they turned a corner and his breath caught.

High over the River they loomed, two gigantic statues facing north. On the left, a bearded man held an axe, hand out in warning, while on the right, a clean shaven man stood stern, eyes seeming to pierce toward the North. Under their vast feet the boats passed, and Aragorn suddenly stood.

"Here are the Argonath, Isildur and Anarion, the kings of old, my kin." There was a light in his eyes that Frodo had never seen, and he wanted to bow. He knew of the kings of distant lands, but here was one in front of him. "Underneath Elendil's sons I have naught to fear."

Frodo saw it was true, and his own fear subsided. So did the temptation of the Ring. These statues had stood for three thousand years, and he did not think even Sauron could overwhelm them. They were silent witnesses to his defeat, and he thrilled to be part of that history.

Then the River opened out, and in the afternoon light, he saw the end of the world. Against the sun was mist and three mighty islands hanging as though floating, and in his ears was a mighty roar. "The Falls of Rauros," he muttered. "Here I must decide."

In his mind he was facing a hard choice. Boromir had nearly fallen before he left, by his own admission. How long before the others also gave in? He was a hobbit among tall and strong men. Were they to fall to temptation, he could not resist them. And he knew the dangers would only grow. And his fellow hobbits? They had come for love of him, but for love he had to leave them behind. No, he had to leave-alone. It was the only way.

But he was terrified. How could he even start? He wanted to throw the Ring in the River where it had been found and run back to the Shire. But…he couldn't. No. He couldn't. If Sauron found the Ring, not even the Shire would be safe.

So lost was he in his thoughts that the bump of the boat against gravel startled him. "Mister Frodo?" Sam said. "We are here."

"Amon Ereb, the Hill of Seeing," Aragorn said with a smile. "We have made it safely."

Frodo helped ground the boat, as he had for two weeks already, and set his pack down. The others followed, and soon they were all gathered. Aragorn refused a fire, but there was still light in the sunset.

"Here we are gathered together," he said, "and here we must decide which way we must go. Shall we go over the Emyn Muil, or will we go down the falls of Rauros and so approach the Black Land through Ithilien? Frodo, you have seen maps. What should we do?"

Frodo was silent. He knew what he had to do. But how could he get away? He would have to sneak away at some point during the night. Alone. Yes. Alone. No one else had to suffer but him.

"Mister Frodo?" Sam asked softly.

Frodo looked up at the frowning, gray walls of the Emyn Muil. "I do not like the hills," he said. "What I heard of them is not encouraging. Yet we might be safely hidden there." He nodded. "Yes, the hills."

"Very well. We will rest tonight and start for the hills in the morning."

Frodo sat quietly while the others ate. Having made his decision, he felt at peace, but with a sort of sad peace. He felt more resigned than hopeful, and ate little. Sam looked at him as though he guessed his mind, but said nothing.

They had just finished their last bites of food when suddenly Perrin sat up still. "They are here," he said softly.

Frodo drew Sting. It glowed a faint blue. Not close, but not far either. The sound of birds was suddenly cut off, and a deep silence fell. It was broken by a blood curdling scream, and suddenly the danger was upon them.

Frodo looked at the new enemy in horror. He had not truly believed in this new breed of orcs, but saw they were all too real. As tall as Aragorn and as big as Boromir, they held notched swords and shields in a steady hand. That was all he had to see before battle was joined. Aragorn whirled Anduril, and every movement brought death. Perrin seemed to grow in stature, and his eyes turned yellow. The hammer in his hand was soon stained black with orc blood, as were the axes of Gimli.

Legolas and Faile drew their blades and went to work, dancing the dance of death, darting to strike with the speed and strength of leopards. Frodo drew Sting as well and went to work, the other hobbits but a moment behind. Though he had little training, Boromir and later Aragorn had taught a few moves that used his small size. More than one of the monsters felt Sting in their legs or belly, and the distraction was all the Men needed.

They fought in a circle, but it slowly tightened under the weight of two hundred monsters. Suddenly he found himself outside the circle, Faile and Sam panting beside him.

"There was no time," Faile whispered. "Come with me, now." Blood stuck to her her dress, but her eyes were clear and cold. Frodo felt a shiver down his spine and tried to run, but Faile was faster and stronger. At once, her hand was over his mouth. Sam looked about to speak, but then fell silent.

Faile fished the Ring from under Frodo's shirt and held it out for a long moment before she put Frodo's hand over it. "I hope to prove my worth. But I have to get you away from the battle and to safety. I have already decided to accompany you."

Frodo put the Ring away. "Can you protect me from yourself?" he asked.

Faile looked at him sadly. "Only time will tell," she said. "But if we do not want the Ring to be lost right now, we must leave."

Slowly, they crept away from the battle, the three of them in a vast wilderness. Frodo looked back once, and saw a sight that chilled his blood. His cousins, Merry and Pippin, were being carried away over the backs of two orcs, and Perrin was being picked up by two more. All the others were down. He wanted to run back, but then he felt the Ring against his skin and feel Faile's grip pulling him along. With tears in his eyes, he turned forward again, steeling himself for the journey to come.


	10. Chapter 10- Shifting Tides

Perrin was in a tunnel of pain, and could not seem to wake up. All there was was a jostling and a foul smell that he couldn't escape. When he woke up, he found the reality was not much better. He was tied hand and feet, and carried across a broad back that never seemed to slow its pace.

He looked to the left and right. Merry and Pippin were with him, also tied, and unresponsive. Had they been killed? No, he could see their chests rising and falling. Unconscious, then.

He remembered the battle now and the overwhelming odds. He supposed it had been too much even for warriors of their caliber. Two hundred monstrous orcs against ten, some of who were not used to fighting at all. He sighed, then turned grim. He had not forgotten either their elven cloaks. Perhaps they might have a chance, for he could still feel his around his shoulders.

He had no weapons, though. Neither did the two hobbits. Still, he had seen worse situations. Perhaps he could enter into the wolf dream and find a way out. Sleep was now impossible, however, for his wounds pained him.

He tried to see the direction of the sun, and found he was heading west. That meant only one thing. They were headed to Isengard and Saruman. He did not fear pain, not for himself, but he worried for the two young hobbits. Like his wife, he felt protective of the smaller members of the Fellowship, and would die to protect them.

He was thrown down with a thud, and with a stomp of nail-tipped boots, the head orc came toward him. He was big, bigger than Perrin himself, and scowled down at him.

"You cost many of the lads," he said in a deep, gravelly voice. "I have orders from the White Hand, scum, and that says you stay alive. But you are awake, and you can run. On your feet! The lads are tired of carrying you." With a quick snick of his knife, he cut the ropes on his feet, and Perrin stood up slowly. The two hobbits were also awake and got the same treatment, and then they were off again.

The orc chieftain led his followers well. There was no arguing, no complaining, just the long run through the cool and shady night. If Perrin had not been a captive, he would have enjoyed the steep hills and swelling grasslands he ran through. At least he knew that there would be no trouble as long as they were on the move.

But even orcs needed to rest, and when the hills finally ended, the chieftain had them rest. As he suspected, the trouble began then. He found the orcs, while bloodthirsty and evil, had very human complaints. No food, no water, little rest, and…

"I should have taken your ears, Snaga," the chieftain, who Perrin heard mentioned as Ugluk, snarled. "The Horselords are now on our scent."

"Their horses can see in the dark, it is said," the short scout muttered, looking at the ground. It was not much of an excuse, and Ugluk thought so too. Perrin turned away, sickened, as they fed on their own, and also thought about what he knew of Rohan. They seemed proud and valiant, and not likely to bend to Sauron, but there was some trouble with the king, or so he had heard from Galadriel.

Would they help, if horsemen caught up with them? Yes, but in battle, it would be easy to mistake friend from foe. He knew that well, and he also knew there would be questions he was not prepared to answer.

He thought about it from every angle, and could not see an easy solution. He thought about it some more as he ran again through the day. Day was the best time for battle, for then, there would be no mistake between human and orc. But through all the land he saw not even a hint of a company. He tried even to reach out to wolves, even knowing that in this Mirror, wolves were not what they were in his own world. Even that turned up empty.

The hobbits were awake now, and ran steadily. Perrin's estimation of them grew through the day, for they did not complain, even though they had to take two steps for every one of his. Still, he knew they could not go on forever. Even now their breath was beginning to sound strained.

Suddenly he started. Pippin was working at his brooch, taking it in his teeth, and then spat it out on the ground. He nearly said something before he realized what the young hobbit had done. He had left a sign to any who might follow that they were still alive.

Any who might follow…was Faile following? She said she would take up his sword. With him as a captive, she would have to. If she wasn't…no, he would not think about that. She had survived both the Aiel and the Blight. No, no, she was fine. In fact, soon he would hold her in his arms. Cheered by the thought, he ran toward the sunset and the high peaks. Even as a captive, he didn't feel beaten down, but watchful and wary, ready for any opportunity.

181818

Aragorn looked around. Somehow, Perrin's warning had worked. They had stood together and defeated the threat. All of them were wounded, but none were dead. He could feel the scratches on himself, but his skill as a healer reasserted itself. He would tend to everyone before they planned the next stage of their journey.

Except…except some of them were missing. "Where are the King and Queen?" he asked. "And the hobbits?"

"Look!" Legolas said. Blood ran down his cheek from a wound, but his eyes were clear. "Look over there."

Against the sunset he could see one of the boats reach the further shore, and three figures, two short and one tall. Aragorn then knew what had happened. "Frodo left," he said. "And Faile went with him. I think he was planning this for a while. The Queen too."

"Do we then go to them?" Gimli said. "Do we help them?"

"No," Aragorn said, feeling peace for the first time. He now knew what he had to do. "The fate of the Ring is not now in our hands. It nearly destroyed Boromir. I will not let it destroy us. But what of the King and the other hobbits? Legolas, what do your elf eyes see?"

Again the elf pointed. Heavy tracks led away to the west, and Aragorn saw in the bushes something else. Reverently, he approached it. "The King's hammer," he said, picking it up. It was warm to the touch, and heavier than he expected. "Gimli, you make light of burdens. Can you carry this? The King will need it back."

Gimli nodded. "Aye," he said, taking it in a reverent hand and putting it over his shoulder. The head of the hammer stuck up, making him look like some strange creature, but his eyes twinkled. "A rescue, Aragorn?"

'Yes. They were dragged away in the fighting, I believe." He did not say why he thought they had been kidnapped. Not yet. "As soon as we eat and I tend to your wounds, we will go after them. The tracks show something lighter also being dragged. One of the hobbits, at least, is still alive."

"Good," Legolas said. "The thought of those merry folk being driven like cattle burns my heart."

Soon all wounds were tended, including a wound in Aragorn's shoulder that was worse than what he thought. After eating a quick bite, they went on their way, running through the cool darkness. As Aragorn thought, Gimli made light of the King's hammer, treating it merely as another piece of weaponry, and soon they had faded into the vast and quiet landscape.

181818

Barid Bel stood on top of the hill, watching the three warriors pass. He felt disquieted. He liked them all, the strange companions, all from different races, all working together. That was unusual for him. He didn't like people, he used them.

"This has nothing to do with the wider war," he muttered. "Even if it is the Blacksmith who is a captive. Let them go, warriors. You are not needed in the North, but the South."

But no, they pursued on. It made no military sense. Even if they caught up, what could three do against 100? They would cease to be hunters, and be the hunted. But there was something about it that still…it seemed right. He didn't like it. Generals and kings did not sacrifice themselves for those below them.

"Go on then," he said. He mouth twisted in distaste as the air warped.

"I heard you met with the Steward," Semirhage said. "Why?"

"Sometimes part of strategy is deception. You of all people should understand that. He will think one thing, but in reality, he will receive another." The truth. Just not the whole truth.

Semirhage nodded. "What is it that you said?"

"I promised him aid," Barid Bel said. He had. Denethor had not been happy about the dwarf army, not at first, but the benefits had changed his mind. Now Azaghal and his men were marching into Gondor, and would arrive in time for the wider war. But Barid Bel had made another promise to himself. If it came to it, he would give his own aid. He might not serve the Light, but he would never let another nation fall to the Shadow.

"But it will be a trap. Well done, Demandred. But why are you here?"

"I am here because I wanted some silence and contemplation. The world has changed, Semirhage. If we win this war, it is my hope that I will find a place within what is to come." Let her take what she wanted from that.

"The Lord of the Earth has promised rewards to those who serve him well," Semirhage said. "We are the only two Chosen on this world, and together, one day…perhaps we could overthrow even Sauron."

"Power was Lanfear's game, not yours," Barid Bel said. "You always wanted pain."

"You should come back to Mordor. You might see…surprises." Her tone had turned chill at the mention of her old enemy. "Sauron's war is almost ready. Soon the lands will be covered in a second darkness." With that, a gateway opened, and she stepped through to something dead and dry. He knew where she must be, and let her go.

"No. You are the last," Barid Bel said. "And the Darkness will die with you." He knew he was on borrowed time now. If Semirhage was suspicious, and now he knew she was, she might talk to Sauron. That might make Frodo's job harder.

"Still foolishness," he muttered. Three against the whole of Mordor, two quiet and peaceful and not used to fighting. Yet he had to admit that it made sense. A diversion, a trap within a trap. Maybe the leaders of middle earth were not so foolish after all. No, maybe they were not.

Opening a gateway, he went to a place he had prepared for his rest, a small camp somewhere in the Trollshaws. Surrounded by trees and high hills, it was well defended, and he had wards only he could see. Putting his hands on his knees, he thought about what was best to do. All the pieces now seemed in motion, and how could he change anyone's course but his own?

181818

Faile rose slowly. She was tired, and she was discouraged. Frodo and Sam were the same, by their long, drawn faces.

They had taken Frodo's suggestion and made for the hills, but they had not taken Aragorn's words about them seriously. Now they were. The Emyn Muil were a trackless wasteland, with little green among the gray and tumbled rocks. For two days they had been going around in circles, and it was making Faile angry.

"There has to be a way down," she said aloud, breaking the silence. "We got up into the hills, there must be a way to get out of them." She looked up at the clouds that were coming up over the sky and grimaced. Though she could feel the changes of spring, it was still cold and rain would make it colder.

"Look," Frodo said. "There may be." They had approached a long shelf of rock, and though the way down was steep, it was cracked, with handholds and footholds for a hobbit or a human with strength. And there were trees, too, to which they could secure their ropes.

Still, Faile did not want to use the ropes, not yet. There was something in the hills with them. They could never see it, but it was there. She had an idea of what or who it might be. How Gollum could escape through a Balrog's clutch was beyond her understanding, but she suspected only he might have the drive to pursue them. She did not want to give him any help.

"I will climb down slowly," she said. She had done little climbing, but Perrin had told of his childhood adventures, and she was far lighter than he. It could not be that hard.

"Are you sure, Miss Faile?" Frodo asked. He had been withdrawn and moody, and Faile was glad to see his natural concern. It was a sign the hobbit was still there underneath the Ring.

"Better me than you," she said. "I am the heaviest." It was true, even with the stout Sam among them. "Please, let me."

Her hands and feet found holds, and slowly, she descended, feeling with her feet for holds. Soon she was down on a wide shelf, and she called for the hobbits to follow. Sam came first, with Faile calling out encouragement, and Frodo came last.

The clouds coming up finally began to shed their load of water, but it seemed too dark for just a natural storm. Faile felt a prickling in her bones, and a sense of fear and menace. But with the hobbits splayed out against the rock, she could do little against what she knew was coming.

"Hurry," she whispered, even as a scream rose up on the wind. Chill and merciless, it was the cry of some damned thing, some monster of shadow. She tried to block her ears, but the cry seemed to echo inside her soul. "The look of the Eyeless is fear," she reminded herself. She had fought Myrdraal, and this was no different. With an effort, she put fear from her and looked up toward the hobbits.

They had frozen, but Sam recovered first, and slowly kept making his way down. Frodo was not so lucky. He had clamped one hand over one of his ears, and that made him lose his grip. He slid past Sam, and Faile rushed to catch him. He had gotten lighter already in the long journey, and Faile caught him with ease. He was shivering, and his eyes were wide, and Faile fumbled for a blanket, knowing he was in some shock.

Sam followed after quickly, and they huddled under the rain, trying not to think about what the cry meant.

"We must travel by night from now on," Faile said. "The wraiths may have other senses besides sight, but we can take one of their advantages away. And we are down. I believe we can now come out of the hills." She sniffed. "The marshes next." She was not looking forward to it. Saldaea had little in he way of swamps and marshes, the closest being the Blight itself. Yet she had steeled herself for the journey as best she might.

"You did not let us use ropes," Sam said. "Why?"

"I believe Gollum follows us," Faile said. "I did not want to give him an easy way down."

Sam smiled grimly. "I don't think he needs ropes. But thank you, Miss Faile." Slowly, they walked along the ledge of stone until it came to an end. There was a sudden drop, and then the Marshes stretched out before them. There was still a little light, and Faile wanted to march a little further.

"A little more. I think we will need ropes for this." She hated it, but they had to get down. They needed only one rope for the short cliff, and they navigated it safely.

Sam looked mournfully at the rope. "A bit of rope," he said. "Given by the Lady herself." He pulled at it mournfully. "Galadriel," he said, and Faile watched as it unwound in his hand.

"To think I trusted to your knot," Frodo said with a laugh. In that barren place, it was odd, but the rocks seemed to give back the laugh. Faile did not try to stifle it. She knew Frodo needed to laugh, and was glad he still could.

181818

Sam had been offended when Frodo had laughed at his knot, protesting his skill. Inside, though, he knew it was not the knot, but the rope itself that had come at his call. Lovingly, he had stowed it in his pack, ready for dangerous days to come.

The smell that came up to his nose was unpleasant, but he knew it was the way they had to take. In the marshes, perhaps they would lose their foes. Even a Black Rider would have trouble following them, he knew. As for Gollum…his fists tightened. If ever he caught up with them, he would be ready.

Frodo had told them what Gandalf had said, but Sam did not agree. Gollum had done murder and worse, and had led Mordor to the doorstep of Bag End. There should be no mercy for him.

They made a bed as best they could on the hard stone, and rested. Faile made her bed in front, putting the hobbits behind her against a small wall of stone, the last bit of rock before the marshes began. "Be watchful," she whispered. "Gollum may come to us. And if it is not him, be especially wary. Have your blade close."

Sam looked over at Frodo, who also looked afraid and grim. He drew Sting, then put it back when it showed no sign of orcs. He smiled and curled up, soon asleep. Sam let him. He knew he was worn out by the Ring and their travels, and would wake him later. He himself could not sleep, however, and neither could the Queen. Both looked out into the rainy darkness, looking for threats, and did not talk.

Sam was just on the verge of falling asleep when he thought he saw two eyes. He rubbed his own eyes, but the image remained. Yellow like a cat's eyes, they were accompanied by a dark, scrawny shape slowly creeping down the rocks in front of them.

He nudged Faile, and the queen silently drew her blade, while Sam drew the rope. Now he could hear a hissing voice, reedy yet filled with hate.

"Baggins, Baggins, we hates them forever. Gollum, gollum!"

So it was him. Sam held the rope ready, a loop in his hand, while Faile slowly stood up. Frodo slept on peacefully, and Sam poked him. Frodo sat up suddenly, his hand going to his chest where the Ring still hung. He looked around, and Sam pointed up. Frodo nodded and drew Sting just as quietly.

Gollum stopped suddenly, as though sensing them. Perhaps he could, with his eyes used to dark places, and Sam froze in movement. After a hesitation, Gollum came on again, then suddenly dropped, straight toward Frodo, yellow eyes now filled with murder.

Faile was faster. In a moment, she had him in a hold. Gollum bit down hard, and she hissed in pain, but did not let go. Gollum tried to reach around with his long fingers to throttle her, but Sam was faster. His own blade, tested at Weathertop, flashed in the night, and Gollum froze.

"Stop, or I'll cut your throat," Sam hissed. His hand tightened, and the sword rested at that skinny throat. Gollum swallowed hard.

He tossed Frodo the rope. "Tie his hands," he said. "We need to decide what to do with him." Frdo obliged, but Gollum began to scream as though in pain. Sam shuffled nervously. Frodo was a gentle hobbit. If anything, the knots were not tight enough. Frodo took them off hurriedly, but showed Sting just in case.

"You've seen this before, haven't you!" he said.

"yes, yes," Gollum squeaked. "Yes, a long time ago."

"We need a guide. We are going to Mordor, Smeagol, and need a way through the marshes. You have been there before, haven't you?"

Slowly, the light went out of Gollum's eyes. He nodded slowly. Sam was horrified. "No!" he said. "He'll murder us in our sleep! He means to kill us."

"I agree with Sam," Faile said. "Gollum is treacherous."

Frodo looked torn. "We need a guide. Aragorn led us to Rivendell, but he is not here. How are we to pass the marshes without someone who has been here?"

Faile spoke slowly. "I know, Frodo. I know. But we...how can we trust him?"

Smeagol stood up straight, and he spoke clearly. "Smeagol will swear on the Precious. If nice hobbitses are nice to Smeagol, Smeagol will guide them to the Black Land."

Frodo was stern, and Sam was shocked and pleased at the change in him. "You just want to touch it if you can. No, swear by the Precious, for you know where it is! It is before you!"

Smeagol fell back. "Smeagol will serve the Master of the Precious!" he cried. "He promises not to hurt the Master, gollum!"

Frodo seemed to relax, and Sam suddenly knew he had seen some part of Gollum's mind. For the first time, he felt a distance between him and his master. Both Mister Frodo and Gollum had held the Ring. What did he know of such matters? Yet he felt afraid, deathly afraid. He still could see no good from the decision.

"Know that the oath will twist you to its ends," Frodo said, then put up Sting. "But I will accept your service. Serve me well, and you will be rewarded."

Faile looked worried. "Are you sure?" she asked.

"He gave his word," Frodo said. "And he loves the Precious above all else. That will keep his word."

As they waited out the day, Sam could only hope Frodo was right, and that they had not made a terrible mistake. For he did not trust Gollum, and knew he never would.


	11. Chapter 11- The Power of an Oath

The Power of an Oath

Semirhage stood, head bowed. "He is a traitor," she said quietly.

The dark form before her seemed to brighten, and out of it, a man stepped. Or something that looked like a man, if a man could stand as tall as an Ogier. On the right hand were four fingers- and she knew. Knew that even Sauron could be defeated. But not yet, not yet.

The voice that rumbled from that form was amused. "So I suspected, when one like you came and did not report to me."

"Neither does he serve the Light. He wishes to be independent, I think. What he has promised and what he has done I still do not know." And it frustrated her she did not know. Demandred was crafty, a true master at deception. She merely dealt in pain.

"The world is moving on. The time of the immortals is ending. The time of men is coming, and men…men seek power." The amusement deepened, a sound like needles. "I was called the Cruel, but my greatest victory was in giving men what they most wanted."

Semirhage had read the history and had no reason to disbelieve it. A whole Empire, fallen to the death. A whole nation serving the Dark. And this man…no, this spirit, had been the hand behind it all. She shivered in the presence of such power.

"But I serve you," she protested. "Even if Demandred is the best for this world, I still serve you. He serves only himself."

"It is true," Sauron said. "And what have you seen in your service, my Hand? The hand that serves the Dark?"

"Your armies are ready, and they will sweep over the West. If men will rule, it will be men who serve you, Lord Sauron."

"It will be so, but there is still one thing I need. One thing only, and then my victory will be complete."

"The Ring," she said. How stupid could a spirit be? To pour all his power into a piece of jewelry. She had the Power...while he had lost much of his. "The Nazgul have not found it yet? They call me the Lady of Pain. Give me even one victim, and I will learn the truth. I will not need another."

There was a pause, and Semirhage wondered if she had gone too far. She was merely a mortal woman, for all her power. Sauron was far above her.

"I hear rumors of the Khuzdul marching out of their caves at last," Sauron said. "I believe someone in Minas Tirith now has what I most desire, and is drawing all to himself in an attempt to unseat me." The mockery in his voice was not now knives, but swords.

Semirhage was sharp in return. "Then let me go to the City of Kings. The old man who sits in his tower will soon give up all he knows. Even if he comes from a noble line, none can resist torture for long."

"Very well. But should you fail, I will make your own pain look like a caress."

Semirhage bent her head, and when she lifted her eyes again, the darkness was gone. The room at the top of Barad-Dur was empty, and she knew where Sauron must be- looking out from the roof just above her, straining to see the Ring with his far-seeing Eye.

Down the long stairs she went, in a temper at the changing circumstances. Once, she had ruled the world with twelve others. Once, she had put a Band on the Dragon himself. Now she was reduced to begging.

Orcs passed her, and she seized the Power without thought. It was a simple matter to place Compulsion on their minds, increasing the lust for blood that was in all their kind. In truth, she wanted them all gone-pitiful wretches with hardly an intelligent thought. Men would rule, not the rabble of goblins, and she would be the greatest of them all.

181818

Eowyn walked slowly down the hall. She was reluctant to walk down that hall into the throne room. She felt eyes on the back of her neck and turned with a shudder. He was there again- the snake! For too long he had followed her, and she was minded to give a piece of her mind. She could fight, and he could not.

She shook her head against it. What was the use? Her father was dying, and her brother was dead. Theodred…he was not really her brother, of course. But she had lived in the Meduseld for so long that she felt that bond. He had taught her swordplay, made her into a shieldmaiden, and made her strong. Now he was dead, struck down by the orcs of the White Hand.

Her gaze strayed to the West. Saruman! The wizard should know better! She hurried, a little faster. She would rather see her foster father in dotage than feel Wormtongue's eyes on her.

Hurrying into the throne room, she was surprised to see Eomer there. Glad, but surprised. Wasn't he supposed to be out hunting orcs? Maybe he had news. He hugged her tightly when he saw her, and for a moment, she took comfort in his strength.

"I heard," he whispered. "I chased a band to Fangorn, but missed the real battle."

"The Fords are still held by our men," she said. "The battle is not done yet." It was for his hope, not hers. She knew better. She made a promise to herself- should orcs come to Edoras, she would take some with her.

Wormtongue followed, taking his place by the king. "Eomer," he said. "What a surprise!"

Eomer threw a helmet down on the ground. Pressed with the White Hand, it rolled to his feet. "This is the threat we face!" he said, looking around at the assembled nobles. "Saruman is no longer our friend, if ever he was."

"Saruman is ever our friend and ally-" Wormtongue began, but Eomer was having none of it. He stalked toward the King's advisor until he loomed over the shorter man. Eowyn watched as he hauled Wormtongue to his feet to look at him eye to eye.

"How long has it been since Saruman bought you?" her brother hissed. "What was the promised price?"

Wormtongue looked over at her. It was as though he had touched her, but she stood her ground. Here and now, she would not be afraid. Eomer saw the look and his grip tightened.

"I could kill you now," he said. "What would the king do, the king that you have sent into dotage? The one you swore to serve!"

"You see much, Eomer, son of Eomund, too much." Men, hard of face, came up behind her brother and pried him away. Wormtongue smirked. "Throw him in prison until he sees sense."

Eowyn looked at the nobles, and they looked back, but did nothing. What could they do, after all? They were sworn to obey. She sighed and hurried away, shutting the door to her own chambers. She had to think.

Making her decision, she began to plan her move. She would remove the cancer from Edoras, but she would have to do it right. A knife in the dark should do the job nicely…if she could reach her target.

181818

Faile struck, hard, and sent Sam to his knees. The stout hobbit was light on his feet, though, and stood again, bringing his own blow. Though he was not very tall, he was strong, and she stumbled backward. Frodo sat on a rock, waiting his turn, while Smeagol was curled up, resting.

It was hard to breathe in the dry air as they approached the Black Gate, and Faile knew they could not practice long, but she was determined that the hobbits would be able to fight if they had to. To her mind, though the elven cloaks were a marvel, she knew they were entering the heart of evil, where all other powers would be dim.

The long slog through the swamp was almost more than they could endure. She had seen swamps and mires, of course, but this was worse in a way, eating on her mind. She had not been encouraged by Smeagol telling their history. She was walking over the grave of the Last Alliance, and she could well believe the dead haunted the place. She could almost feel their whispers- the bold songs of the elves, the shouts of men and the hiss and grumbles of the orcs.

But they made it through. Now she wondered if the swamps were not preferable. In the swamps, they were safe. No one, not even the Nazgul, could see them. Now they were in a pitiless wasteland, without even a sign of growing things.

"Good, good," she said to Sam. "You are quick on your feet, and will make a fine warrior someday." She meant it, too. Many of the great men of Saldaea would have already succumbed to the dangers and temptations of the road.

Sam wiped his forehead. "Begging your pardon, Miss Faile, but what's that noise?"

Suddenly Faile heard it. "Down!" she said. Immediately Sam dropped, pulling Frodo down with him. She motioned them to stay put, and ran to the top of the hollow in which they sheltered. In her travels, she had seen many soldiers, and had studied the nations of many more, but she had never seen soldiers like these. Dressed in red and gold, they wore gold earrings and wore strange overlapping plates of armor. Their faces were dark, even darker than the Sea Folk, and they carried their weapons proudly.

Smeagol had woken up and peered over the hollow with her. He shivered. "Men from the South," he said, but it was enough. Faile had read about the fierce Haradrim, the implacable enemies of Gondor, and her heart sank. They were not coming to challenge Sauron, but to join him. If such armies were coming to join him, how would they ever enter Mordor?

"I made a promise," she whispered. "I made a promise, and I will keep it." She turned to Smeagol. "Continue to lead us."

"Smeagol made a promise," he said, although there was doubt in his voice. Faile, for the first time, did not hold it against him. He said nothing more, but led them down behind the enemy lines, moving them toward the Black Gate. How they were to pass the walls of steel, though, Faile did not know.

181818

Perrin lay against a stone. He was tired, and blinked wearily against the night moon. For three days they had marched, and for much of that time, Perrin fought just to keep his feet moving. For the hobbits, it had been even worse. The orcs were tireless and unflagging, and Perrin could almost respect them for their stamina.

He nudged Merry, who lay beside him. Merry opened one eye. "The orcs are resting," Perrin whispered. "We need to get away."

Merry held up his hands, and Perrin's heart gave a leap. The bond were loose, tied in a loop he could easily slip out of. How he had been able to do that, Perrin did not know, but his estimation of the two hobbits went up.

"I've done the same for Pippin," Merry whispered, as he worked at Perrin's knots. The guard was on the other side of the camp, and Merry threw a stone off to the left. The guard turned his head, enabling Merry to finish his work. "There. Now we can all run, really run, whenever the chance is right."

Perrin looked at the forest they were under. "The chance may be now," he whispered. "If we can hide in the trees, we might lose them." He had heard stories of Fangorn from the elves, that some power dealt in the woods. He had seen the power of nature unleashed, the wolves and even the very trees fighting for the Light, and he was not afraid. "How fast can you move?"

"Fast enough, as soon as Pippin wakes," Merry whispered. "He was treated worse than me."

Perrin's blood boiled. "We will make them pay, but first we must get free." He looked around. All backs were turned. Pippin was rousing under Merry's hand. He pointed to the forest, and the younger hobbit nodded.

Perrin looked again. "Run!" he whispered harshly, and Pippin and Merry ran, right into an orc that had stepped out of the darkness. Perrin recognized him as the leader of the Mordor orcs, Grishnakh by name. He was not abusive, but whenever he spoke, Perrin felt a chill run down his spine. Here was one evil to the core, evil far beyond cruelty.

"Little hobbits are getting lost in the woods, are they?" the orc said. Though not as big as Ugluk, he was just as strong, strong enough to carry the hobbits each in his hands. He dropped them outside the circle of torches. "Better to let me protect you. Ugluk doesn't know everything!" He began to paw at them, and Perrin spoke slowly, stepping into it.

"You won't find it that way," he said. Grishnakh looked up at Perrin, who was a head above him, and a suspicious light came into his eyes. But at least he was focused on him, not the hobbits.

"What do you mean?" he said.

"Gollum, gollum." Perrin knew what the orc was after now, or thought he did, and was confirmed when Grishnakh started violently.

"Oho. Little man and halflings dealing with matters too big for them." Grishnakh's eyes were wide, wide with greed and hunger.

Merry had caught on. "Searching us will do no good. We don't have it!"

"Search! Search!" The smaller orc was flustered, and turned to them. "My dear hobbits, I'll search you to the bone! And we won't hurry the enquiry, oh no!" He seized them again, and Perrin sprung. The knife he had picked up flashed in the night, and Grishnakh's head rolled from his shoulders.

At that moment, there was a great cry. The Riders who had followed them for the last three days finally attacked. Perrin didn't want to be in the middle of the battle, and motioned to the hobbits. Flitting like shadows under the shadow of the elves, they escaped into the forest.

"Good work," Merry said to Perrin when they had finally reached the trees.

"The fool had dropped his knife in the effort to get at you," Perrin said. "Good work, yourselves, for the brooch and for the ropes."

Merry nodded, and Pippin just blushed, from fear or modesty Perrin didn't know. There was a nasty wound on his forehead, and Perrin picked him up. "Come on," he said. "Let's get a bit further, then I'll look at your wounds."

181818

"Fools indeed," Barid Bel said. He watched the battle and saw the Riders cut down the orcs like a scythe through wheat, then saw their leader dismount and fight the leader of the orcs sword to sword. He was no Trolloc, but still a massive brute, taller and stronger than the smaller horseman. But his strength did him no good.

"Burn the bodies," the leader said when all was done. "Let no shadow come back to the White Hand."

So it was done. Barid Bel watched as a tall figure and two smaller ones escaped to the woods. He felt the power there and was disinclined to follow. It was a good power, but he was not ready for the meeting. Not yet.

"I have heard about you," a voice said, and Barid Bel spun, wondering at this new…no, not a threat, but powerful. He could feel the sense of threat showing that this new guest was strong, perhaps even as strong as him. But all he saw was an old man, wrapped in a gray cloak and leaning on a staff.

"Who are you?" Barid Bel said.

"I am called Gandalf," the man said, and Barid Bel's mouth nearly dropped open. "And you were once called Demandred. One of the Forsaken, I believe."

"No longer," Barid Bel said stiffly. "Now I am not sure what I am."

"That is true," Gandalf said with a smile, sitting on a rock. Barid Bel joined him. "I have seen many things about you. Those who sent you here are…curious to see which way you may go."

"It was suggested that I was sent so that I may be turned to the Light. But would the Light accept me? What did you see when you were dead, when the stars turned over you?" He did not know why he said that, except that Gandalf must have died. No one could survive such a fall, or such a fight. Not even him. His balefire had been a distraction, no more, and he knew it well.

"Many things. The fate of man hangs in the balance, for they are not controlled by the Song. Oh, I am sorry, the Pattern. Here, they are free, free to choose as they will. There are many turning points, and you may be one. Already you have changed things. I too am a turning point. I have been sent back…until my work is done."

Barid Bel nodded. "You come to fight Sauron."

"You could join me. My…the head of my council…you could be as he was meant to be. Your power is great, and your knowledge greater."

Barid Bel sighed. For the first time, he saw as those on the other side must have seen him, with pain and regret. "Saruman the traitor. Gandalf, I have made a vow….that I will not let any nation ever again fall to the Shadow. I…nudge things with that in mind."

"Two thousand dwarves is more than a nudge, my friend," Gandalf said with a smile. "Denethor is a proud man. How did you convince him to take an army into his kingdom?"

"I told him about the Lady of Pain." Barid Bel put some hate into his voice. He may have hated the Dragon, but he hated the other Forsaken just as much. "Semirhage and Sauron working together will bring darkness."

Gandalf paused, as though listening. "Perhaps you should return to Minas Tirith," he said. "I will watch over the hobbits and Perrin."

"As you will," Barid Bel said. "I see you care for them. But why? They bring nothing to this battle."

Gandalf's eyes fell. "You will see in time," he said. "Now go. You have given your word, and I am told that even when you served the Dark you did not break it." The urgency in his voice made Barid Bel open a gateway right there, and he stepped into a scene of horror.

181818

Beregond had been watching the skies, looking up at the stars. It was a quiet night, and the city that never slept was sleeping. He could see a light up in the Tower, which showed that Denethor was working, and could see the guards around the Tree.

Suddenly he started. There was a shimmer in the air, and then the air simply split. He seized a spear and threw it without thought toward the shimmer. He was on edge from the months of waiting for Boromir, and the city was wound up with him.

A woman stepped through, tall and dark, and her black eyes were pools into nothing. She looked around, as though she was orienting herself, and Beregond pressed the advantage, seizing another spear and throwing it.

But this lady was fast, faster even than he. The spear stopped an inch from her, and then fell to the ground. He had heard rumors of wizards beyond the seas of Rhun. Was this one?

"Guards-" he started to scream, but suddenly his mouth was full of air, a bond he could not see, and his hands were pinned to his sides. The woman walked toward him, leisurely.

"A surprise, to be sure," she said, tracing a hand along his jaw. "Were I Graendal, I would take you as a pet. You are pretty enough and strong enough." The touch was suddenly pain, arcing along every inch of his body. She breathed deep as though in ecstacy, then straightened. "But I am not her. I am called the Lady of Pain. Remember that!"

"You want my master?" Beregond said. "The blood of Numenor does not bend to tyrants. It did not bend to Sauron. It will not bend to you." He spoke past the pain that wanted to consume every inch of him.

The woman's face darkened. "You know your history well. But you do not know me. Not yet." She walked toward the Tower, and Beregond, still trapped in Air, could only watch. The pain ended, but there was a deeper pain. He was a member of the Tower Guard, the best of Gondor, and he was powerless, wrapped up like a package. He could breathe, but he could not move.

He waited and watched, and soon enough, too soon, the woman reemerged, with Denethor in her hands. She had some wounds, but not many, not as many as might be expected. Had she done to the other guards what she had done to him?

"You have fought Mordor. Now you will see its splendor," she said to the helpless Steward. "You and I have a visit to the Dark Tower. It is said you are strong. We will see how strong you are."

"I have fought with the Dark Lord, woman," Denethor spat. "I wrestle with him in thought, and I refuse to follow him still."

Semirhage purred. "You say so now-"

Beregond watched as another door opened in the air, and a man stepped out. He was tall, and his face was hard.

"Never again will a nation fall to the Shadow," the man said, and raised his hands. The woman ducked backwards as a beam of white light, brighter than the sun, arced past her head into the sky.

"Balefire! You dare to use it?" In the woman's voice was a trace of fear. Beregond felt the same, knew somehow it was a weapon more powerful than any other.

"Is this how you died?" the man said. "I would guess so. If you can die once, you can again."

Again his hands raised, and Semirhage dropped the Steward. "Get back!" the man commanded, and the Steward wasted no time in retreating. A beam of light shot again from the man's hands. "Balefire was my weapon, Semirhage. A man can recover form pain, but what I have is the final death. Pure and clean, as you never were." His voice was a taunt, and the woman's voice darkened with fury.

"You dare!" she said. "We were once allies, Demandred. Once, we worked together."

"My name is Barid Bel," the man said, and once again, light shot from his fingers. "And I name you my enemy."

The woman stumbled back as though shocked. "So be it," she said. A hole opened in air, and she stepped through quickly. Beregond was still frozen, and now the pain was a shock, a thunder that made him want to faint.

The man moved quickly to him and did something, he could not see what. The bonds and the pain disappeared, and he fell to his knees, gasping with relief. "She wished to kill you slowly," the man said softly. "Yet you surprised her with your courage." The man held out his hand and helped Beregond stand. It was calloused, with the marks of one who knew the blade. No soft lord, then.

"It seems I am in your debt," the Steward said slowly, rubbing his hands. "I might make you a captain in my army."

The man stood frozen, as though undecided, then finally nodded. "As you wish," he said. "I will stay here, for I believe that here the stroke will fall the hardest. And you now have the hate of someone who can do you real harm."

The steward smiled. "Beregond," he said, and he came to stand at his master's side. The pain had faded, and he could move again. "You took on an enemy far beyond you, and with courage and skill."

Beregond dipped his head. "It was not enough."

"No, but now we have a man who might help us be enough. You will be his tutor in our ways, our oaths, and his duties as one of the Tower Guard. I will have my armorers make armor for him, and when he is ready, he will take that armor and his duties. I hope he will help us in return."

Beregond walked over to the man. He still held an air of power tightly controlled, much like the Steward, and he could see they were almost of one mind. "You are Barid Bel? Perhaps I should know your history and your strengths so that you can best serve us."

The man shook his head. "You have seen what I have done and what I said." He seemed amazed, as though he did not expect those words to come from his mouth. "The Steward knows me, for I have been here before, once."

Beregond let it lie, though he was curious. The dark woman seemed to know him, and now they seemed to be enemies. Perhaps over time, he could build trust with this strange, powerful man who spoke little and did much.

 **A/N: There is a reason I chose Demandred to come to Middle Earth. Of course, as a Forsaken, he did many evil deeds, and his reasons for turning to the Dark were petty and selfish, but I always felt he maintained a strand of honor, even at his blackest, something none of the other Forsaken ever seemed to care about. That, to me, makes him an interesting character, and one worth exploring more.**

 **I hope you agree!**

 **Semirhage, on the other hand…would find serving Sauron a great pleasure. He was, after all, called the Cruel, and she is the Lady of Pain. It is a match made in hell, although I think she might overestimate her own importance…as most of the Forsaken have in the past.**

 **(If you wanted to know my reasoning, there it is)**


	12. Chapter 12- Before the Storm

Before the Storm

Perrin walked through the woods, the young hobbits behind him. The woods were thick and tangled, and going was slow. He was also walking slowly for Pippin's sake. The younger of the hobbits had been brutally hurt by the orcs, and he was giving him time to recover.

He bent often to drink from the stream that flowed through the woods, washing away the stink of orc, and encouraged the hobbits to do the same.

"It's so thick in here," Merry said, breaking the silence. "Like a room that has never been cleaned."

Perrin felt it, too, and also a feeling of warning and watchfulness. Something was in the woods, something that hated all who walked on two legs. He tried to decide what to do, and decided to press on. He knew the orcs were the real enemy, and the one who sent them. He did not think Saruman had any love for the woods.

Pippin was the first one to see the hill in front of them. Perrin immediately guided his small party toward it. Perhaps they could see the lay of the land, and see where to go. The rough steps were too big almost even for his feet, but all of them managed in the end.

He was amazed. They had come clear to the roots of the Misty Mountains, and before them the plains of Rohan spread out to the distant horizon. He could see the Emyn Muil, but even with his eagle eyes they were blurry. He turned his eyes to their immediate surroundings next. The woods continued on toward the mountains, and they still seemed close to the southern borders. If they were to continue the journey, he would have to hunt for them. He felt the bowstrings in his pockets that the orcs thankfully had not taken, but that would be no good without a bow.

Setting his mind to the problem of how to provide and where to go, he looked around at the hill itself and the immediate forest. An old stump with two branches stood next to them, while the sun shone up the grand nature of Fangorn. Instead of close and stuffy, it was greener and beautiful, a refuge from the smokes of war.

Pippin seemed to catch his mood. "I almost think I like this forest," he said.

"Almost think you like the forest!" came a deep voice from behind them. "That's uncommonly kind of you!" Perrin thought, for a moment, that the Green Man had come to life, but the stump that now moved toward them was different. It was older and more gnarled, like an old oak, and the deep green eyes that looked back were far brighter than that of the Green Man. One alike, and unalike, then.

Perrin bowed low, and those bright green eyes sharpened even more. "Do you know me? Are you one of the Wizards, who wears a different face?"

"No," Perrin said. "I am simply a man. But I know ones like you. I am Perrin." Somehow, he didn't think this creature would be impressed by titles.

"Humans I know." The tree like creature spoke softly, but Perrin could feel the anger, like a steel spring wound tight. "But these with you look like little orcs, burarum. They come with axes, they come with fire, burners and usurpers." His voice rose, and in a sudden movement, the hobbits were caught up, and Perrin with them, in hands that squeezed ever tighter. "Traitors!"

"We aren't orcs," Pippin protested, at the same time Merry said, "We're hobbits! Shirefolk!"

"Never heard of a hobbit." The grip loosened, though still there was no escape.

"Halflings!" Merry said. "We are halflings!"

"I am Treebeard," the great figure said. If Perrrin's friend Loial stood next to the tree figure, he would come up to his waist. "I am an ent!"

Perrin bowed his head. "We were told of you by Gandalf," he said. At least, by secondhand. He tried not to weep, still, but it was hard. Even so, he felt a thrill at meeting one of the famed shepherds of the forest. "He…he fell."

"Hoom," Treebeard said quietly. "He was a friend, I see. And old Gandalf would never be friends with an orc." Carefully, he loosened his grip and set them on the ground. "You are the first new things I have seen in many a year. What are your names, little masters?"

Perrin breathed out a sigh of relief. He was strong, but the strength in those branch-like arms was phenomenal. Had Treebeard wanted to kill them, there would not be a thing he would have been able to do about it. Even the wolf-dream would not have helped him.

After the hobbits gave their names, Treebeard bowed to them. "Come. We will go to my home, and there we can be refreshed together."

Soon Perrin was riding on the shoulders of Treebeard, with the hobbits held in his twig-like hands. They talked a little, and Perrin was surprised to find that Treebeard had known the First Age, six thousand years ago and more, and was older even than Elrond or Earendil himself. There were so many questions he wanted to ask, but Treebeard spoke slowly, forcing patience.

His strides were long, however, and soon they were at a home made of rocks and leaves. There the oldest of the ents refreshed himself in the stream and enjoined his guests to do the same. Perrin did so, and felt his weariness wash away. The hobbits followed, and then they sat at the great stone slab that served as a table. "Come then, my friends," Treebeard said. "I will give you some of what ents eat. I do not think it will harm you." He held out two large bowls, almost pitchers, and Perrin picked up one, while the hobbits shared another.

He had drunk many drinks, from the strong brandy of the Two Rivers to the fine wines of Saldaea, the ales of Illian and the oosquai of the Aiel. In Middle Earth, he had drunk the ale of the dwarves and the cordial of Rivendell. This left them all behind. It tasted like water at first, but then changed to something like a spring day in the best of woods, where every leaf was green, that is, if the ideal spring could be tasted. He drank and drank, and then felt full. Somehow, it was enough.

While he had drunk, the old ent had laid himself down on a bed made of bracken and twigs, putting his hands behind his head. "Now," he said. "You are on the edge of great things, unless I miss my guess."

Perrin looked at the hobbits, warning them to be quiet. Now was not the time for hobbit fancies. It was too important, speaking before the race that shepherded all the woods. He spoke simply, as simply as he knew how, telling all he knew and what he guessed.

"Hoom," Treebeard said finally when Perrin had fallen silent. "This is a great matter indeed. War has come to the woods, and the Powers bring men from across the stars to help us." His eyes flickered. "Saruman I know. He used to walk in my woods, asking my leave and many questions. But he has revealed himself at last. He has a mind of metal and wheels!" He stood up suddenly, and his beard bristled like a great broom. "Saruman! A wizard should know better! He does know better! There is no words in Elvish, Entish or the tongues of man for such treachery! Down with Saruman!" He thumped his great fist on the table, and jets of flame came up from the two basins in the back of the house. "I will stop it!"

Perrin put his fingers in his ears. The Green Man's anger had been terrible, but this was far worse and far more wild. But he did agree with the sentiment. He was no general like Mat, but he knew maps well enough. If Saruman conquered Rohan, as seemed his aim, Gondor would be caught in a pinch. If he could call the wolves, he could…but there were no wolves he could call here.

Treebeard shook his head. "I did not mean to scare you, Master Perrin, King Perrin I should say. In truth, there are too few of us left, too few for what must be done. But I will call an Entmoot, and we will see what must be done. For if we do not, Saruman will burn all the woods." He went to stand up by the entrance to his home. "I will stand in the rain and think," he said. "You can take the bed. Goodnight!"

Perrin felt his jaws cracking. For the first time in days, he knew he could sleep in peace. Yet he was troubled. He wanted to use the wolf dream to scout the land, but if he did…if the Eye found him, could he stand? Or would he tell all to the ruin of all? If Saruman, who was not even human, could fall into arrogance and evil from the use of a seeing stone, would he withstand before the full might of Sauron? In the end, he decided against the chance.

181818

Barid Bel walked the battlements of Minas Tirith. It was a strong city, with a good defense, high against the shoulders of the White Mountains, and with an encircling wall around its farmlands, down to the River and the ruins of Osgiliath.

And the men were strong as well, with courage to match their grand city. They were proud, with a great history. Barid Bel felt proud to serve them, and the Steward who led to the best of his knowledge. Yet he knew that his own world had ways of warfare far advanced to what Denethor knew. Day by day, his advice was asked and received.

The Rammas was daily being strengthened. It would not stop a determined assault, but it would buy some time. Stores of food were daily brought into the city in the case of a siege, and heralds had been sent out to every province, asking for aid. The dwarf host was marching along the coast, destroying every Corsair ship that dared to show its face, freeing up men from the southern provinces. A dry moat was even being built around the city, laid with traps for the unwary. He did his part as well, Traveling to and from Ithilien to receive the reports of the Rangers there and giving them his own advice.

Watch. Report. Ambush and strike. Fade away. And they did it well. Already several columns of Haradrim had been…taken care of.

Still, Barid Bel was displeased. Though Denethor looked to the protection of his own lands, he did not seem to care about the lands around him, either defending them or making alliances with them. Especially Rohan.

"You swore an oath," he said finally. "Send out riders, Denethor. We must unite, or we must fall. My enemy, Semirhage, brings her magic and her evil to the Eye. They will work together. So must we, with all who will join with us."

Denethor looked at him. "I have seen much of Rohan," he said. "And I have seen who rides with them. Do you think I am blind?"

A sudden suspicion flared in Barid Bel's mind. "Just how do you know this?" he asked. Perhaps he went too far, but he had to know. "With who have you spoken?"

"I wrestle with the Eye in thought. You have saved my life, Barid Bel, but do not pry into my affairs. I am the Steward, and you are not." His voice was cold. "As I have drawn you in, I can dismiss you."

Barid Bel held his tongue. He knew not to argue. Not yet. He bowed and left, and immediately sought out Beregond. The two of them, though not exactly friends, worked well together and seemed to share a concern for Gondor and its people.

"It is said he wrestles in thought with the Great Eye," the guard said. "At times, I see flashes of light in the Tower. But how….how he does, I do not know."

Barid Bel thought he did. But could he confront the Steward? He looked at the people, and then at the frowning walls of Mordor. He was torn. He had loved Shenla, he thought, and at the end, had felt some remorse for how he had treated the Sharans. But they had given everything to him. What did he owe Gondor? What had he ever owed Middle-Earth?

He looked at the dark mountains to the east. He had sworn not to let another nation fall to the Shadow. Behind those walls were monsters and an enemy he had promised to defeat. He would keep his word. He sighed.

"When the Lords come to the city, we will meet with them. Sooner rather than later, Denethor will have to be removed as the Steward. If what I fear is correct, he is being poisoned by the Enemy."

Beregond's mouth dropped open, and he looked about to speak, but Barid Bel grabbed him. "Not here," he said. "Wait. First tell me who the strong lords are, and who might stand with us."

181818

Faile pulled herself up over the last few yards, to the top of the hill, and looked out slowly onto a scene of dark majesty. When she had thought of the Black Gate, she had thought of something…smaller. The biggest towers in Saldaea would be hard pressed to match it, and she swallowed hard at the sight.

From mountain wall to mountain wall the gate sprung, a span of steel that was as hard as rock, guarded by two stone towers. Along the top, orcs and trolls patrolled ceaselessly, and she had no doubt an army waited behind that steel wall. Even with their cloaks, they would be quickly discovered on the empty plain before the mouth of hell.

Sam spoke for her. "It seems this is as far as we will get. If only my gaffer could see me now."

Faile thought of her father. Perhaps Davram, as one of the Great Generals, could find a way, but she could not. She settled into the high hollow, chin on her hands, thinking, trying to remember everything she knew of war and battle. She shook her head, finally. There was one way, and that way was terrible. To enter, Frodo would have to wear the Ring. It was not an option.

"I don't know," she said.

"I still have to try," Frodo said. "I gave my word." He made to rise, but Faile pulled him back down, and so did Sam.

"Maybe Gollum has some ideas," he said, looking sideways at their captive and guide. "Seeing as he was in Mordor and saw the Black Hand." Sam seemed to hate Gollum with a passion all out of sorts with his gentle nature, and Faile could not understand it. Certainly, Gollum was contemptible, but Faile thought of the power of the Ring and what it had done over five hundred long years, and she felt pity. And he had been faithful so far.

"Do you know?" she asked gently. "Is there another way?"

Gollum looked up at her. "Yes, Mistress. Smeagol knows. It was how he escaped."

"Escaped, or sent?" Frodo asked. He had grown more stern as the journey had progressed, and Faile welcomed it. Gollum shivered, and looked at the one he had sworn to. He said no word, but his eyes showed his displeasure.

"Tell me the truth," she said. "What is this way?"

Between his anger, Gollum told of the hidden way, of the cleft in the mountains and the dark tunnel. Faile was no coward, but she knew enough Sindarin to know what the name Cirith Ungol meant.

"Did you mean to lead us into a trap?" she asked. "Is there a monster in the pass that will eat us, bones and all?" Her fear made her angry, and she looked levelly into Gollum's green eyes. The light went out of them, and Gollum cowered down.

"You are strong, with sharp swordses, gollum gollum! Maybe you can find a way?"

Faile leaned over to Frodo. "I don't know. Ungoliant was a monster I don't think even the Dragon could kill. If this is one of her brood…"

Frodo drew out Sting. "This blade took many spiders in the dark woods. I don't believe that it will have any trouble killing another, if worst comes to worst. We cannot pass the Black Gates. We must try another way."

Faile took some courage, remembering Bilbo's terrible journey through Mirkwood. In all reality, this choice as well was the best of many bad options. She looked over at Gollum, who waited on the decision. "Guide and lead us faithfully into Mordor, Smeagol. Let us take the hidden way."

The green came back into his eyes, and Faile shivered. There was still time to make betrayal, should he wish it. But they had no choice. With a heavy heart, filled with foreboding, they began the next step of their journey.

181818

Azaghal had little love for pirates. Dishonorable folk, all of them. He knew the dwarves had a reputation for being greedy, but they at least kept their word and fought with honor in battle. He had no problems destroying every Corsair ship that came across his sight. They were many, but they did not fight well, not against an enemy that was sharp and strong from the goblin wars that were still fought in the deep places of the earth.

He looked at the ruins of another burning ship. His dwarves had collected all the plunder, and gave it back to the ravaged communities along the coast, along with leaving a few dwarves in every town as a guard. He thought that the lords of Gondor would be grateful, and they were. He also knew that the war would not be fully won until the Ring…the Ring, that accursed piece of gold. He knew what a lesser one had done to Thror, and then to Thrain. No. He knew better. His people were prosperous and wise, though every dwarf kingdom had its hotheads.

His lieutenant, Bwalin, came up to him. "The next town along our route is Dol Amroth. Its lord is here, and wants to meet with us."

Azaghal nodded. "Have the tent set up. How many does he bring?"

"Twenty knights, all on horses."

"Have them fed and watered, and I will meet with Imrahil."

Soon he was doing just that. Imrahil was a tall man, with sea-gray eyes that seemed to see deeply into the heart. His knights were also stern men, but gracious, mingling freely with his own folk.

"Thank you for dealing with those pirates who run along the coast," he said. "And for leaving a guard at every town you pass. We are grateful. You have not even kept any of the plunder, as you might have done."

Azaghal nodded. "I remember when Thorin had no home, and had to settle in my father's halls, just before I became chief myself. I helped him then, and I will help any made helpless by war. If we are allowed to mine in the White Mountains, and keep what we find there, we will count ourselves repaid."

"As always, honorable," Imrahil said. "I have been called away to Minas Tirith, I and as many men as I can spare. I will take five hundred of my knights, all arrayed as you see now. You are welcome to march with me, or to take a rest from your labor for a few days. My family and many of my servants will remain here, and will give you hospitality if you wish."

Azaghal looked at the tall figures, with the light of the elves in their faces, and thought that five hundred of them might turn the tide of any battle.

"A few days may not be amiss, so that we can arrive at the White City with all of our strength. How far is it to Minas Tirith from here?"

"About fifty leagues."

"Six days, then, I would say." The dwarf lord stroked his beard. "Three days to rest, and then three to march."

Wonder came into Imrahil's face. "You are hardy, and strong. I have not seen dwarves in quite some time."

Azaghal's tone was dry as dust. "It is true we are not seen so much in the South, but I am sure that will change, if all that the Steward hopes for comes to pass."

"It would be a welcome change, I believe," Imrahil said. He looked about to say more, but there was a crack in the air, and out a man stepped. Azaghal had felt his presence, but never met him.

"Lord Azaghal, Lord Imrahil," the man said.

"Barid Bel," Imrahil said. "I have heard how you saved the Steward and the City. To what do I owe this honor?"

The man stood stiffly, and a touch grimly. "A matter of some importance," he said. "I need to speak with you about something called a…palantir, I believe."

181818

Imrahil stood slowly, his mind awhirl. "What do you want to know?" he asked warily. This man had once been evil, if everything he knew was true, and he not about to share what he should not.

Imrahil spoke to the dwarf. "For this, I must ask you to stand aside. We will speak more later."

"You are welcome to my tent," the delf said. "Simply find me when you are done."

Imrahil faced the other man when they were alone. He was taller, but he knew that Barid Bel had the greater power. With a gesture, he and his men could likely crumble to dust. He looked warily.

"What do you wish to know?" he said again.

Barid Bel sighed and spoke simply of his suspicions. "I want no civil war while there is war on the borders of Gondor. But neither can there be madness and a selfish clinging to power. The Creator will work with or without us, and I believe it is time for the king to return."

Imrahil knew that the elves saw clearly, and that he was descended himself from the fair folk. He also knew of Aragorn, and agreed with the other man. But…

"The palantir is the Steward's by right, passed down for thousands of years from Isildur himself. I would not suggest you take it from him."

Barid Bel snorted. "That is not my plan, Lord Imrahil," he said. "Nor do I want kin-strife. I know of your kingdom's history. As the most powerful lord beside the Steward himself, would you take his place until he is well once again?"

"You cannot ask this of me." Imrahil was shocked. "For you forget the Steward's sons. Boromir is a noble man, and so is Faramir."

"Faramir, perhaps, but the same weakness that is in Denethor is also in Boromir." He lowered his voice. "He almost succumbed to the Ring. A man who would lead Gondor is a man who will not fall."

"You mean…it has been found?" That Imrahil had not known. Much of Barid Bel's words now made sense. Imrahil did not much like Denethor, it was true, but had always respected his sons. To hear that Boromir had nearly fallen…

And could he resist such temptations? He did not know. "Let us hope it does not come to such a doom. I can, if needed, call the rest of the lords and talk to them, but they will be divided. If I sat on the throne, they will not all support me."

"Would they If it was a time of war? In such a pass…compromises might be made. In the world from which I come, farmboys led armies and shepherds became kings to lead the Light to victory. And if the men that you command are any indication, you are far from a shepherd." The other man's voice was dry as dust, and Imrahil blinked.

"Perhaps they might," Imrahil said. "For you are right. If Denethor has been corrupted…at the very least, I can command the Council of Gondor to look into the Steward's actions. From there, we will see what we will see." He felt pressed, but the logic of the former Forsaken was sound. Perhaps he had to think of more than battle, but of leadership.

He looked again at the other man. "I am taking my men to the city as we speak. It is a three day ride, and at the end of it, we will be weary. I will give you my word, however, that as soon as my men are set in readiness for battle, I will talk to the Steward myself and see the truth of this."

A tension seemed to leave Barid Bel. "I will do you better, and open a gateway to come to the city even this very afternoon." He seemed to struggle with his next words. "I ask for nothing in return. But I was sworn into the service of Gondor, and…"

"And you are beginning to love the city. Come then, let us see what we can do."

 **A/N: Lots of talking in this chapter, I know. But I feel that Barid Bel (I will not call him Demandred) had to press the point. Loyalty is all well and good, and even necessary, but a loyalty that gets people killed and puts a kingdom in danger is not a loyalty that anyone should accept.**

 **If anyone should know that, it would be Barid Bel himself. That's all I'll say on the matter.**

 **Next chapter up as soon as I can write it!**


	13. Chapter 13- Deliverance

Deliverance

Boromir looked out over the Great Gate of Minas Tirith. It was a strong city, a city he loved. A city he was proud to die for. The heartland of Gondor, the beauty of the West. And his father was leading it to ruin.

He could still hear the sting of his words. "Where is what I hoped for?" The following conversation had not been pleasant. Nor was the way his father treated him now. Trusted with the defense of the city, he did his best, helped by the strange, dark man who had appeared to him. The suggestions give he implemented, seeing their sense, but he worried for the father he loved.

And he worried for Faramir. Apparently, the Rangers his brother led were doing well in Ithilien, almost bottling up the enemy in the tangled woods, but he knew it could not last forever. A storm was coming, a storm to end all storms.

Beregond came up to him. The captain of the Tower Guard, now, for his efforts in stopping the Lady of Pain. Wizards from other worlds. He could scarce believe it, one good, one evil. What if she appeared again? His heart came into his throat, and his sword into his hand, as the air split.

It was not her, but Barid Bel, and through the gate that appeared rode horses, hundreds of them, all with swan plumes, and one at their head he knew well. "Imrahil!" he cried, and commanded the gates be open.

The reunion was happy, for Imrahil had been almost like an uncle to him growing up, and there was a great bond between them still. Imrahil smiled back, but it did not reach his eyes, and Barid Bel looked grim, even for him. He soon found out why.

"So that is what drives my father. I know little of the seeing stones, friends. My brother is the loremaster, not I, but I deem that my father's mind is overthrown."

"I too deem so," the Prince said. "Where is the Alliance with Rohan? Where are the Rohirrim?"

Boromir shrugged his shoulders. "And where are the beacons?"

Barid Bel spoke briefly, and soon they were on their way to speak to the Steward.

181818

Denethor was reflecting on his latest view in the Stone. Flying, flying into darkness. His people to ruin. A man with a star on his brow, coming to take his place. Armies massed in Mordor, waiting to overwhelm him. And behind those armies, a woman whose touch was fire. No. No. He shivered, remembering her power, and could almost feel the pain again.

"Come!" he said to the knock on his door.

Boromir was the first to enter. Then followed the Lord of Dol Amroth. Finally came Barid Bel, his advisor and advisor to his son.

He rose slowly. "Imrahil. I did not know you had come so quickly. I have barely sent messages."

Imrahil looked shocked himself. "Your advisor has made holes in air, and so I have come. But I do not wish to speak of that."

Boromir knelt. "Father. I know you have looked in the Palantir. What have you seen?"

"Our ruin," Denethor said. "We have shrunk, and Mordor has grown. Your brother barely keeps Ithilien now. What will happen when it is lost?" He was surprised at the despair in his voice, but he had seen it over and over. His ruin. His people's ruin.

"Not yet!" Boromir said. "Father, would you cast away all that others have done for you? Stop looking in that accursed stone of wizardry, and look at the allies you have. Light the beacons. Call for Rohan. It is not too late yet. You have brought the dwarves. Why not the Rohirrim?"

"Do you know who rides with them?" Denethor asked. He knew Boromir had ridden with the Fellowship. Now he would test his loyalty.

Boromir nodded. "Yes, Father. I do."

"And would you hand over our kingdom to this Ranger from the North?"

"I believed his claim," Boromir said slowly. "And I believe his character. Had he wanted the Ring, he could have taken it. He did not. Can the same be said for you and I? No, I do not want to hand over this kingdom that you and I defend, but what should be done? He will come, soon or late, and would you have kin-strife when Mordor presses the attack?"

Denethor was not stupid. He knew his son was right. "If this Aragorn is so noble," he spat angrily, "he will stand aside and not come within a hundred leagues of this city."

"And if you were so noble," Barid Bel said, "you would not fight the return of the king. You know my history, Steward. You know I was evil and did all I could for the Dark. Yet the Light won regardless. Do not resist the Creator." Every word was a hard nail, and every word was filled with disrespect.

Denethor saw red. "And did you have to give up a kingdom to a ragged line long bereft of lordship?"

"Yes. But we will not speak of that here. Lord Imrahil?"

The Prince's voice was grave. "Lord Denethor, you have usurped your authority and station. You have thought more of your own glory than the glory of Gondor, and have refused allies in your time of need. By the laws of Gondor, it is my duty to remove you. Your son will rule until it is seen whether us or Mordor will prevail."

Denethor screamed, a scream full of rage and pain, and at once, Boromir was there. "We do not do this to hurt you, but to help you. We love Gondor as you do, and want to see its glory restored. You have been under much stress. Please, let us help you until you are well again."

Denethor saw that his son still loved him, and a tiny tear trickled from his eye. "I am worthless, and my line will come to ruin."

"No, father!" Boromir said. "You are a great man still. Be even greater by resting so that you can lead us when the final battle comes."

181818

Perrin smiled as he watched the trees talk in their slow language. Nearly fifty ents were gathered at the entmoot, and Perrin was not tired of watching them. For three days he had sat with the hobbits, even as Treebeard made his case for war. For three days the atmosphere had wound tighter and tighter. Now there was silence.

He almost drifted off in the peaceful surroundings before a great crash echoed through the woods. He woke with a start to see the ents marching in two columns, Treebeard at their head. "We come, we come to war!" fifty voices shouted in unison, shaking the ground.

Perrin smiled, and woke the hobbits. Treebeard, seeing them, took them on his shoulders, and together, they all marched downhill toward the Wizard's Vale.

Perrin had no doubt of what the ents could do. He had seen the Green Man kill a Forsaken. He almost felt sorry for Saruman, that is, until he remembered the orcs he had sent to kill them and the deprevations in Rohan.

"Tell me, Treebeard, what is your plan?" he asked Treebeard when there was a lull in the singing. "I know your strength and power, but Saruman will try to surprise you."

"So he will, Master Perrin," Treebeard said. "And it could be that we march to our doom. The last march of the ents." A sad light came into his green eyes. "But we will fight regardless, for if we had not marched out, the orcs would have marched in."

Perrin knew it was true. Saruman, like the Forsaken of his world, would not have stopped until all the world was under darkness. He gripped Treebeard's shoulder sympathetically, and Treebeard smiled back. And so they marched as the sun went down. Suddenly Perrin started.

"There is a forest here," he said.

"Yes, Huorns, the wild trees of the wood. They will keep Saruman locked in his tower if he refuses to fight. And there he will stay."

Now they climbed, up and up and up again, until they looked down into a shadowy valley filled with smoke. "Nan Curunir, the Wizard's Vale," Treebeard spoke softly. "Now we wait for night."

181818

Pippin was amazed. He thought he had heard all of Perrin's stories, but he seemed to take talking trees as a matter of course. While they waited for night, he leaned over to Perrin. "Your majesty," he said.

"Just Perrin," the other man said, though he seemed distracted. "What do you wish to know?"

"How do you know of all of this? Do you have walking talking trees in your world as well?"

"One," Perrin said sadly. Pippin leaned in closer, and even Treebeard inclined his head. The king from another world spoke simply of his friend, the Green Man, and his sacrifice to defeat Balthamel.

"I have visited his grave, high in the barren mountains, and…" he said no more, but wiped his eyes. "He saved all our lives." Pippin patted his knee sympathetically, and the big man smiled.

Treebeard spoke slowly. "Talk no more of it, Master Perrin. It is enough to know that the Creator also placed one like us on your world. I suppose we are like, but yet unlike. It is a mystery, one that will not be unraveled tonight. It is dark. Come, let us…"

He trailed off at a boom from the valley, the stamp of feet and blowing of horns. A thousand points of light suddenly flickered in the darkness, and formed into a long train leading out of the valley to the east.

"Saruman's army," Pippin whispered. "Can we stop them?"

Treebeard closed his eyes, and Pippin thought he had not heard. But when he opened them again, the forest was moving the same way, flowing over the top of the ridge like a living wave. It was terrifying to watch, and Pippin wanted to shut his eyes. He knew how the army would be stopped now, and shivered. He would never take any tree for granted ever again!

Treebeard picked him up once more, and together, they marched down into the vale. Saruman did not even look up, so focused was he on his army. Hidden in the darkness, they waited until the last orc had left, then sprang forward.

In minutes, the great gates of Isengard were in ruins, and any orcs left, the guardians of the ring, were trampled underfoot. Saruman himself, sitting at the gates to watch his army go out, looked up in alarm, and tried to escape, but the younger ents were far too strong and fast. Picked up in hands of iron, he was brought before Treebeard. "Guard him, and do not let him speak. Gandalf will come, soon or late, and then his judgment will be pronounced."

Pippin handed over his own handkerchief to gag the fallen wizard. He thought it just, and did not smile as he normally did. But he was surprised at the mention of Gandalf. He had told the old ent all about Moria. Perhaps there was news he did not know. He was a wizard, after all, and probably hard to kill.

"We will watch," one of the ents, Quickbeam by name, said in a high voice that yet trembled with anger. "Until three times the length of which he tormented us has passed, we will not cease to watch him."

"Good. Come, little friends, let us wash away the filth of Saruman." And through the night, they did just that, destroying all the foul machinery and labor of orcs that had filled the once green valley. The ents not guarding Saruman did the same, using their great strength to smash the strange wheels and pits that dotted the circle of Isengard.

"I will go into the tower," Perrin said, "and see what I might find there." His voice was grim and cold, and Pippin saw once again the merciless warrior, implacable in battle. His great hammer almost seemed to glow with the force of his anger, and Pippin looked away quickly. When he looked up again, the king was gone, stepping into the tower.

Treebeard now took them toward the dam that held back the waters of the Isen. "Brace yourselves," he said, and Pippin looked over at Merry to see the excitement in his eyes. Gripping tightly, they watched as Treebeard pulled hard on the supports, moving back quickly. Down the water poured, sending up a hiss of steam, pooling in the circle and at last washing away the works of Curunir.

"What will happen here?" Merry asked.

"Trees will come back to live, wild trees. And perhaps if the king returns, we will give him the Tower of Orthanc to do with as he wills."

Pippin was not displeased at the thought. Strider in Orthanc seemed out of place, but also fitting. "May that day come soon," Merry said for him.

181818

Gandalf rode quickly toward Isengard, in a hurry. Always in a hurry, now. For three hundred lives of men he had moved slowly, watching always and influencing little. Yet now there was no time, for the War of the Ring was coming quickly toward its end.

After collecting the scattered remains of Theodred's and Erkenbrand's forces and sending them toward Helm's Deep to help the king, he then rode toward Isengard, hoping for the best outcome. With his new knowledge, he could almost see the battle unfolding.

He saw the forest first, the wild trees in their deep anger. They parted for him, but unwillingly. "Rest easy," he said quietly, putting his power in his words. "Your torment will end soon." He could almost feel the woods relaxing, and he rode easier and faster. Soon he broke out of the woods to see the great gates of Isengard in ruins, and a cluster of ents nearby.

"Where is Treebeard?" he asked as he rode up. His heart was lifted, but he was in a hurry.

A young ent went off to find him, and Gandalf dismounted, looking down at his enemy. His brother. Hos former friend. Saruman was a ragged sight, sitting on the ground, bound hand and foot and gagged to prevent his speech. Gandalf caught his eyes and strove with him, feeling his anger but also his weakness. With his new power as the White, Gandalf could have crushed Saruman. Still, humiliated, he might come to a cure. He tried to convey it with his eyes, his judgment and pity, but Saruman turned away and spat.

Grieved, Gandalf turned away. So he was unchanged. Still, he had to offer a cure. And he would, when he returned with the king. For now, Saruman would have to gnaw on his plots, gnaw with no hope of fulfillment.

Treebeard came quickly, carrying the hobbits on his shoulders. Gandalf was glad to see them, but in no time for their chatter. He spoke quickly, outlining his plan, and Treebeard nodded. "We will continue to wash away the filth of Saruman," he said sadly. "And we will prepare for the king's arrival. Will you be with him?"

"I will," Gandalf said. "I must pronounce the doom of the fallen. Until I return, hold him securely."

Treebeard laughed, a great boom. "Have no fear," he said. "My people are angry and will guard him well."

Perrin was returning now, wading in the water, holding something in his hands. "Gandalf, it is good to see you. I found this in the tower."

Gandalf shuddered, seeing at last the connection between Mordor and Isengard. "Did you look?" he said sharply. Perrin shook his head and held up the ball.

"I am no magician or Aes Sedai, and this is beyond me. Although I may look in the dream to see if there is more danger."

Gandalf was glad of his wisdom and courage. Though grieved for the fall of Saruman, he knew better every day that men would do well with their dominion. Gratefully, he took the palantir.

"This will go to the one to whom it belongs," he said. He clapped Perrin on the shoulder. "Now I must go, but I repeat my command to Treebeard: make ready for the king of Rohan. You are a king, too, and know what he needs. I will return soon, and then we will talk more."

Perrin nodded. "Come, all of you," he said. "Saruman had to have storerooms. We will see if we can find them."

 **A/N: In the books, Eomer rode with the king, for the king rescinded his imprisonment. Erkenbrand and Gamling were the commanders in the Westfold, and over Helm's Deep. I have stayed true to the book and how it describes the battle.**

 **A shorter chapter, but I want to show that the influence of evil is beginning to break, both the obvious evil of Saruman and the more subtle evil of Sauron. As the books themselves say, "Oft evil will evil mar," and so it is the case here.**


	14. Chapter 14- Judgment Day

Judgment Day

Perrin closed his eyes wearily. Saruman was defeated, yes, but his judgment was still to come. It was hard to sleep with Saruman not even a mile from where he stood, but he had to try, if only to be at his best in the coming days.

He wondered where Faile was, and whether she was well. Wondered if it was right to search for her. In the world of dreams, in this vast land beset by evil, would he be able to find his falcon? No, he would not search out evil. He would search for her. At once, he was in the wolf dream as Young Bull. He was alone here, of course. Hopper was far away, in another Mirror of the Wheel, but he had been alone before, when his powers were strange and new to him.

Saruman was lightning surrounded by darkness, the light warring with the dark but the dark almost triumphant. He started when he felt Perrin.

"Do you use the seeing stone?" he asked, surprised. "How it is you are here?"

So that was what it was. "No," Perrin said. "This is my power and ability. I walk the invisible world in dreams."

Greed seemed to flit over the figure of Saruman. "What I could do with such power!" he said. "Yet the Grey Fool has taken all from me."

Perrin spoke sternly, as a king addressing a subject. "You have done that to yourself! I know who you are, Curunir, Messenger of the West." Saruman started back. "You have fallen through pride and arrogance into evil. Did you think Sauron would ever give you what you want? He does not share power!"

Now Perrin spoke softly. "You want order and rule, prosperity and wisdom. You are high, and I do not have the power to judge you. When Olorin comes to judge you, consider well your position, and who you could still be."

Saruman stared back proudly, yet Perrin could almost sense his doubt, here where all was made visible. He made to speak, but Perrin did not let him answer. Using the skills he had made in his own world, he gagged Saruman. After a moment, he removed the gag. "I am not like you," he said, and then left.

His companions would not be here, except for…yes, there. There was a brightness that resolved into the form of the elf Legolas. Perrin approached the figure.

"Do elves also walk in the unseen?" he asked. Legolas started, then turned to him.

"So this is your power," the elf said. "Alone among men can you do this, I deem. Only the Elder Children walk in the unseen."

"There are others," Perrin said, feeling a pang for Elyas, who had started him on that path. "But they are rare, true. I merely scout. Perhaps I will try to find my wife. She is the falcon who flies with me."

"And what form will you take?" Legolas asked. There was no greed, only curiosity.

"This one!" Perrin said, shifting into the form of Young Bull.

"You hunt danger," Legolas said, but there was something in his voice that showed his respect. "Watch for the Eye, should you scout to the East."

"I will," Perrin promised.

First he traveled to Helm's Deep, to see the battle. The army besieging the fortress was huge, but against them was a deeper darkness, a rustling and whispering that waited, the forest that wanted vengeance.

The wall had not fallen. Not yet, though there was a hole that looked like the work of dragons. Yet he could tell the fortress still held strong, and would endure. Again he circled out, sensing for reinforcements. He saw a shining figure of light, and knew who it must be. Running to meet Gandalf, he saw that the wizard was almost too bright to look at.

"Hello, Young Bull," Gandalf said. He rode fast, and Perrin settled into an easy lope to keep up with him, shading his eyes from the light. "I did not expect that you would come here."

"I felt pulled into this world. I was thinking of my wife, and wanted to know if I might be able to find her."

"If you can, do so. It would be a lift to many hearts to know where she stands. Yet…I am sure you know the dangers."

"You and Saruman are lesser spirits, yet Sauron the greatest of all. Yes, I have not forgotten." Perrin spoke respectfully. "So this is what a wizard looks like on the other side. Or what one should look like."

"So I am," Gandalf said. "You see truly. Should you meet one of the Valar…why then…your form might be consumed by their radiance." There was humor and affection in his voice, but also clear warning. "Now I must ride, ride and bring help to Helm's Deep."

"Then I will not keep you," Perrin said quietly. "Go now."

He hung back until the light of Gandalf disappeared over a hill, then turned to the East. The east, and Darkness. Setting his face, he ran toward the Great River, where they had split what seemed a lifetime ago. He would start there.

181818

Faile wrung out her shift. Surrounded by trees, the pool she bathed in was quiet and still. After the dust before the Black Land, the garden of Ithilien was a paradise. Sam and Gollum had gone to find food, and Frodo was nearby, splashing in his own pool, singing snatches of songs his uncle had told him.

Faile was weary and tired, and still on her guard, but happy to be in such a place. She had heard of Ithilien, but nothing could have prepared her for the reality. For the first time since Lorien, she felt she could breathe, and if Frodo could sing, he also felt better.

"I am nearly done, Miss Faile," Frodo said. "And you?"

"I will be dressed soon," she said. Her shift was still damp, but it was clean. She knew it would soon be dry. Popping it over her head, she put on the short, narrow dress over it. She would put on her stockings later.

Suddenly she stiffened. There was a…presence nearby. She thought she knew that presence, a gentle touch on her mind, an assurance that all was well and concern for her safety.

"I am well," she said quietly to Perrin. She spoke slowly and softly, telling what had happened in simple sentences and where they planned to go. There was pride in his presence, pride and comfort and relief mixed up together. She still wondered how he had found her, after the Last Battle, and why he did not appear fully. Maybe he could not.

Suddenly there was a sense of danger, and Perrrin's presence disappeared, almost as fast as it had come.

"Who were you talking to?" Frodo asked, coming around the corner.

"A waking dream," she said. "I thought I felt the presence of my husband. He has strange gifts, and I admit I still do not fully understand them. He is well, and I assured him I was as well."

Frodo was relieved. "I have been worried," he said, "wondering how fares the rest of our fellowship." His hair and shift were damp, but the grime of travel were washed away. "Did he say anything of the others?"

"No time," Faile said. "There was a sense of danger, and then he disappeared. I hope he was not…"

"The Ring is quiet," he said. "I feel no presence of evil. I do not think it is the Eye." And he would know, Faile knew. She breathed deeply.

"It is enough," she said. "Let us go and see what our companions have found to eat. I am hungry, and I am sure you are as well."

The hunting was good in this disheveled garden. Gollum had found a pair of rabbits, and Sam had fetched several birds with his sling. They were now stewing in a pot with some of the first herbs of spring. It smelled delicious, and her stomach growled, reminding her of how long it had been since good food.

"I will tend the pot," Faile said. "Go and wash up, Sam, if you wish to."

Sam smiled through the grime on his face. "Thank you, Lady Faile. I didn't like to make a fire, but my master needs to eat something more than lembas, and you do as well. You look pinched. I would have offered to Gollum, too, but it seems he doesn't like our food."

Faile was touched by his concern. Indeed, the dress hung more loosely on her than it had when she left Lorien. "Thank you, Sam. I will put out the fire as soon as the meat is fully cooked."

She and Frodo sat for a while while she stirred the pot. Off above them, they heard Gollum sniffling, and the crunch of bone, while in the pool she had found, she heard Sam's quiet movements as he cleaned himself. Soon he came back, and Faile put out the fire, judging the simple stew done. Sharing the spoon, they made a meal with some lembas. After so long, it seemed a feast.

"Rest a while," Sam said. "I will go and do the washing up." He took the pot and spoon and went off to do just that. Faile leaned back against a tree, suddenly sleepy. She knew the night march was to come, and wanted to be prepared.

Suddenly there were voices, faint, but coming closer. "I heard noise over here," one said, deep and commanding.

"Maybe it is what made the smoke," another said.

Faile looked at Frodo. There was no point running. It seemed they had been discovered at last. Sam came back quietly, having also heard.

"Can we run?" he asked in a whisper.

"Those are the voices of soldiers," Faile whispered back. "I do not think we will go far. Let us wait for them to come to us, and see what happens."

They did not have long to wait. From every side, men dressed in green stepped into the clearing. Armed with bows and long knives, to Faile's eyes they were elite soldiers. Their leader came last, and Faile took a breath. The resemblance to Boromir was so stark she knew who it must be.

"Lord Faramir?" she said hesitantly.

The man in question swept off his mask and revealed a fair face, yet stern. The look in his eyes was the equal of any of her father's officers, hard men with a lifelong grudge against the Shadow that had taken so much. He swept a bow.

"You have the look of a queen," he said, "though you dress as a traveler. Yes, I am Faramir of Gondor. How do you know me?"

181818

Gandalf rode slowly through the reek around Isengard, mourning the fall of so much that was high and beautiful. Though Curunir was a traitor…he was still a fellow Maiar, and a brother in the fight against Sauron. How could he not grieve for that?

He was also filled with wonder at Perrin's form in the unseen world. It had been long since he had spoken mind to mind with one of mortal men. No, he had never done so. Not even Earendil had so much power. What other wonders might come from the world across the stars, he wondered? Already things were slowly shifting with their coming, and he did not know if it would be good or bad.

He was also thrilled at the victory over the forces of his fellow Istar. He had known of the Onodrim, of course, for his brother Aiwendil had told him much, yet to see them in all their fury was a sight to behold. It almost made him feel young again, when Yavanna walked over the plains of Middle Earth and Orome hunted in the woods.

That reminded him of the dangers, and he spoke sternly. "Even defeated, Saruman is a dangerous enemy. Beware his voice." The company with him nodded slowly, even as the mists cleared.

Gandalf had seen the devastation by night, but in the day, the damage was even more stark. Most of the wall around the circle had been thrown down, and pieces of machinery lay everywhere in the dirty, ankle-deep water. Steams and smokes still rose in places, but the ents had been thorough.

A big figure and two smaller ones sat on top of the rubble of the gate, all three smoking. Plates and bottles were around them, and they looked like they had eaten well. The large figure took his pipe out of his mouth and bowed.

"Welcome, Lords, to Isengard," he said. "I am Perrin, and these are my friends Meriadoc and Peregrin. Treebeard has taken over management of Isengard, and has bid us make you welcome."

Behind him, Gimli snorted. "You rascals! You led us on a chase all across Rohan, and we find you sitting and…smoking! Where did you find the weed?"

"You speak for me too," Legolas said with a laugh, "though I would rather know how they came by the wine."

Gandalf laughed. Always, the little people would make his heart glad. "We will eat later," he said. "First we must deal with the prisoner."

"Must we?" Pippin asked. "Treebeard has him in hand, and I do not think he will go anywhere."

"Yes," Gandalf said sadly. "I must pronounce his judgment."

Perrin gave a hand to the two hobbits, and they clambered off the rubble. Soon they stood before Saruman, who was held between two tall ents, one Treebeard himself. Gandalf searched his face, searched his eyes. There was doubt there.

"Remove the gag," he said. Pippin unwillingly did it, but he did.

"My old friend…" Saruman began as soon as he could speak, but Gandalf cut him off.

"You were never my friend, and you proved it by trying to hand me over to Mordor. No, Curunir, you now stand in judgment. But before I do, I offer you the choice to join me once more. There is doubt in your eyes, I see."

Curunir stiffened. "And there are conditions, I suppose." His voice was cruel and mocking, and Gandalf sighed, his pity warring with his anger.

"Yes. You will hand over your staff and the keys to the Tower of Orthanc. Your staff will be returned should you prove worthy. The keys will go to who they belong- the Heir of Isildur."

"And I suppose you want the staffs of the other wizards, and the keys to Barad-Dur itself. A modest plan, and hardly one in which my help is needed."

"Curunir, you have become a fool." Gandalf now spoke sternly. "You were deep in the Enemy's council, and you know what he intends. Servant of Aule, you know more than anyone what he intends and who he is. You could render us great help."

"And what of the damage done to my people?" Theoden asked, voice tight with anger. "I would take his head."

"Not yet, my lord Theoden," Gandalf said. "Let us first see what he decides to do." He turned his eyes on Saruman again. "I know your mind. You do not have Orthanc anymore, and you think your power defeated."

"It was given to me by the Stewards," Saruman protested. "A tower is useful when armies come calling. Would you have naught but the wild woods at your back? The woods that destroyed my army? They hate all that goes on two legs. If you trust them, you are a fool, an even bigger one than I thought. Only by iron and steel can iron and steel be defeated."

"You were always proud, Curunir, proud of your power. But where is that power now?" Gandalf felt some hope. "You will never be allowed to enter the Tower again. Even if I asked Treebeard, I do not think he would allow it."

"His sorceries lie deep," Treebeard agreed. "But his heart is not yet fully rotten. The tree may have to be cut down, but even a sapling can grow strong again."

Wonder came into Saruman's face, but there was little pity in it. "You have grown," he said slowly. "But against the Shadow in the East there is no victory. We must ally with it, or we will die."

"No!" Gandalf said. "Not yet. His victory is not beyond all doubt. For there are still those with power to resist him. Tell me, Curunir, how would a man fare against what you put these brave hobbits through?" In his eyes, he read the answer. Now Gandalf opened his mind to the other wizard. It was a risk, but…he had to chance it. He showed the hobbits and all they had done, from the time Frodo left Hobbiton to the Breaking of the Fellowship.

Saruman sighed. "A hardy race, and they do have the power to resist the Enemy…for a time. But I will not serve you. I have never liked you, Olorin, or trusted you. I should have been the head of the White Council, for I had the greater power."

So. The root was laid bare at last. With the confession, Saruman seemed to deflate, and death came into his eyes. How long had his envy festered, until hatred turned to service of the Shadow? Yet pity was still in Gandalf's mind. Curunir did not understand…could not understand. Even he did not understand the working of the Song fully.

"I do not ask for your service, simply for your help. And I will not keep your staff. I give you my word, Curunir."

Curunir nodded once and drew a ring of keys from his belt, passing them to Gandalf. Quickly Gandalf handed them to Aragorn. His staff took longer, but eventually, it too went to the Heir of Isildur.

It was done, then. He spoke to Treebeard. "He still has his voice," he said. "I hope that one day, he will find his cure."

"If he cannot live in the Tower, where will he live?" Perrin spoke slowly.

"I am hoping Theoden will have that answer," Gandalf said, feeling slightly embarrassed. He had not thought of that. "King Theoden, my brother had already been judged by the ents, but he has done you wrong also. Could you give judgment, what would it be?"

"As he kept me captive through his puppet Wormtongue, so he would be my captive, helping to undo the work that he has done. He would be under guard day and night, but he would also be treated with courtesy, for he is one of your order."

"Not anymore," Gandalf said, feeling a sudden prickling that showed communion with the Powers. "Saruman, this is your judgment from those who sent you. You are cast out of the Order and the Council, and have no color. Yet your staff will be kept against your good faith. You have done much by giving it up, and surrendering your keys."

Curunir looked sullen. Gandalf could almost see his mind- though he was defeated in body, he would never bow. In some ways, that encouraged him, for perhaps his brother in spirit would grow tall again, spreading life instead of death.

"One command only I lay on you," Gandalf said to the king. "Do not let him come back here. For his own protection, for the Dark Tower will soon look to Isengard. Sauron does not take betrayal as kindly as we. In fact, we should all leave as soon as we may."

"At least let us feed the king," Merry said gravely. "We prepared food for him and his men, and we do not want it to go to waste. Have you changed your command?"

"I have not," Gandalf said. "Come, let us partake of the bounty you have prepared. Then we will go." He smiled, glad that at last, one of his worries could be laid to rest.

181818

Faramir looked at his strange guests. He had been busy with the Haradrim, and the ambush he had performed, but now he wanted answers. He had eaten and given them courtesy as well, but now was the time for talk.

"There are few strangers that travel in this land but for my rangers and the servants of Sauron. You are not servants of the Enemy, that I can see, but you are also not men of Gondor. Women do not fight in my country, and you have the bearing of a queen. From which land do you hail?"

"My name is Zarine Bashere," she said, drawing herself up. "It is true I am a queen, and became so on the death of my cousin, who was queen before me, and my father, who was the next in line for the throne. I come from a land you do not know, Faramir, son of Denethor, but I mean no harm to your people. I was a friend of your brother, for my part, and that is how I recognized you."

"And was he a friend to you?" Faramir asked. So many questions. Maybe he would find some answers. "Did you set out from Rivendell, then?"

"Yes," she said. "With four halflings, my husband the King, your brother, Aragorn, a man of the North, Gimli the Dwarf, Gandalf, and Legolas the elf. We went through Moria, where Gandalf fell. We received comfort from the elves of Lorien, and then took the River Anduin to the falls of Rauros."

Faramir could read the hearts of men, or so it was said, and the sadness in her eyes was not false. Yet he still had to be sure.

"My brother carried a device," he said.

"Yes, a great white horn," Faile said. Faramir nodded. Yes, that was his brother.

"And why did you make such a journey?" he asked. "What is your errand? This I will not have secret."

Faile stiffened, and the older of the halflings, Frodo, clutched his chest. Faile spoke slowly. "Isildur's Bane," she said. "You have heard of it, most likely."

"Yes. My brother and I both received the same vision. Yet why? Isildur was killed by an arrow, yet arrows are common. Is there more to the story, Queen Faile?" He knew there was, but he did not want to say more, not too soon.

"Yes. A mighty heirloom it is," she said. "Please, I do not want to say too much, for you are a valiant man, but so was your brother, and he…"

"The trial was too much," Faramir said. He was not offended. He knew his brother well and loved him, but was not blind to his faults. Glory was his passion, and he sought it diligently. The temptation to use the Enemy's weapon…the enemy's weapon…the pieces suddenly fell into place. Yet still he kept his face smooth. "I do not blame you for your fear. But even were it lying by the highway, I would not take it."

Faile was silent, but the tension had not left her. If anything, it was greater. "Are you sure there is nothing more I can do?" he asked. "I cannot help you unless I know more."

Sam spoke slowly. "You have very fine, Faramir, putting us off our guard and giving us hospitality. Yet…yet I think we will keep our business our own."

"Will you not let us go?" Frodo asked. "I have a task to perform, or attempt, and I am weary." He did look it. He was exhausted.

"I will give help if you tell me what I must know. You can barely stand, and Queen Faile, you have seen better days. Why do you wish to enter the Land of Shadow?"

Frodo, whether by accident or design, Faramir would never know which, leaned forward, exhausted, and suddenly Faramir saw it. Saw the Ring. His hand went to his sword. "So!" he said. "The Ring of Power within my grasp, and a host of men at my call." The sword slowly extended, and pulled the Ring out. He was entranced, looking at the plain band. The band that had nearly destroyed Middle-Earth and led his brother into corruption. For now he read the riddle. Slowly, he lowered his sword.

"Put it away," he said. "I now know all I must know."

"I must destroy it," Frodo said in a weak voice. "Gandalf said so. I do not know the way, or how I will ever get there." And then slumped, dead faint, as though the very confession wanted to kill him. Gently, Faile caught him.

"You pressed the point," she said, but not without malice. "Will you help us? Is it in your power?"

"It is," Boromir said. Faramir started as he looked around, to see a hole in his cavern and his brother stepping through. With him came Barid Bel.

Frodo, revived for the moment, started back from the other man, but Boromir bent his knee. Boromir, who bent to no one but his own father.

"Frodo, son of Drogo, I will instruct my brother to give you all the help you wish for. For I am now the acting Steward. Our father…"

Faramir could not believe what he heard as Boromir unfolded the tale, but soon the two had a plan of action. Faramir would withdraw to the ruined city of Osgiliath to hold the ford over the River. For, as both well knew, the main attack would soon come, and there the Rangers, used to secrecy, could do the most good. They would escort Frodo as far as the Crossroads, then send him east into the mountains. Boromir would send of the reserve to Osgiliath as well.

"What of the Nine?" Barid Bel asked. "They are no longer physical, and I do not think even my balefire would hurt them. Do they have any weakness?"

"It is said they fear fire," Faramir said. "If their mounts can be brought down by arrows, we could then hurt them with fire, or at least give them discomfort. But first you must face the fear they bring."

Barid Bel stroked his narrow chin. "That is good to know," he said. "Perhaps I can think of a solution to that problem. As for fear, I lost my fear long ago. If nothing else, I will stand alone against them." He was not boasting, the two brothers knew, but simply stating a fact.

Soon all was settled. Frodo and Sam were found a bed, but Faile was still awake, and together, the two brothers, the former Forsaken, and the strange queen talked long into the night, encouraging each other in the light and helping each other resist the darkness.

 **A/N:**

 **I had Gandalf think of Saruman as he would have known him in the West. Here are a few translations and terms:**

 **Curunir: Saruman**

 **Aiwendil: Radagast**

 **Gorthaur: Sauron's nickname (The Cruel)**

 **Aule: the Vala of earth and substance**

 **Orome: the Vala of the hunt**

 **Yavanna: the Vala of growing things**

 **Olorin: Gandalf's true name**

 **Onodrim: Ents**

 **Military minds: is the strategy I have for Gondor sound? From what I know of medieval warfare, I think so, but I could be wrong.**

 **Saruman is…complicated. He knows he is defeated, but still wants to play the upper hand. A proud one, he is…but also afraid, as his actions show. We will see if his repentance is genuine or not. Honestly, it could go either way.**


	15. Chapter 15- The Journey to Mordor

The Journey to Mordor

The company that left the fortress the next day was a quiet one. Faramir was filled with his own thoughts. Barid Bel and Boromir had left that morning, early, before anyone else was up. Even he had been surprised by their departure, but it was to be expected. They had to plan the defense of the city, after all.

But that his own father had fallen! Faramir could barely credit it. His father was hard, of course, harder than most men had the right to be. Any leader living in the Shadow of Mordor had to be. But to be broken by his own despair was something he would have never considered. He only hoped Boromir would do better, and resist the darkness. He felt he might, for he had come through his temptation. So had the strange, dark wizard who had already done so much for the city. Or so he hoped. The look of anger in his eyes was enough to unsettle him.

Frodo walked beside him, and they talked a little of the Shire, deliberately holding back on the Quest or what they both had to do. Faramir was a good judge of character, had been told so, and deemed the halfling needed little reminder of the darkness ahead. Faile was further back in the company with Sam, watching over the rear along with some of his best trackers.

There were some three hundred of the Rangers with him. There would be more, but his father had held many back closer to Minas Tirith, expecting him to do more with little. It was one of the ways Denethor had looked down on his younger son. He hoped that would change with his beloved brother now in leadership of the City.

No one troubled them that night or the next, and the next day brought them to the Crossroads. While his men took the defiled king and set him back up in the place of honor, Faramir looked up at the sky. There was a darkness coming up over the mountains, a darkness that could almost be felt.

"He sends his darkness to cover his armies," he whispered. "The war has begun."

Frodo looked up and shivered. Faramir put a hand on his shoulder. "I would go with you," he said. "Into the very fires of Mordor. But I have…I have my duty. Just as this queen from a land I do not know has hers."

Faile came up then, nodding. "We are grateful for what you have provided, Lord Faramir. We will now go on as we have begun."

"I have put provisions in your packs to last for many days," he said. "And here I give advice. Do not drink from any water in the Morgul Vale, for it is tainted with the sorcery of that place. I wish you were not going that way at all."

"So do we," Frodo said. "But we cannot pass the Black Gate, even with our cloaks. Perhaps by going through the pass of Cirith Ungol we can escape unfriendly eyes."

Faramir hoped so. He bent down to look in Frodo's eyes. "Be careful. There is some unknown evil in the pass. Trust to your courage, and have hope. I do not say we will meet again, Frodo Baggins, but you have given me courage once more. Farewell."

Then he turned and left them, looking down toward the river and his home. Mablung, his second in command, looked back once. "Do you really think we will see them again?" he asked.

"I hope so," he said. And indeed he had hope where before he had little.

181818

Faile still had little hope, but she walked forward confidently when Faramir and his men had left. And that had been enlightening. If they ever returned to their own world, she would have some soldiers dressed so. She had already considered it with the Aiel, but this only confirmed her suspicions that every nation needed elite soldiers.

She turned her mind from the future. She had to get Frodo and Sam over the pass into Mordor. She dared not consider what the next steps would be. This was why she had left, after all. To get them to Mordor.

Even with the unnatural cloud overhead, Faile still felt comforted by the green all around her, a green in contrast to the lifelessness before the Black Gate. Even as they continued to climb and the green began to fade, she still felt hope. Dark went down and still they marched, until the line of the River was a haze below them. And still they marched, up toward a huge hill blocking their path. When they came around the corner at last, Faile gasped.

She had heard of the ruined Seven Towers of Malkier and had faced the terrifying journey through the Blight. This was far different. Not a ruin, but a fortress inhabited by evil creatures, tall in dark majesty. Minas Morgul stood before them, and she quailed before the power there. For a moment only.

For what Frodo wore could control any creature, even the Ringwraiths themselves, and she knew it well. Again she wondered at her own mind. In Rivendell, safe and sound, she had rejected such wisdom. Now…with all her mind, she resisted the temptation in front of her, power set against power, and though the fear returned, she felt easier within her own mind.

Returning to herself, she saw Frodo running toward the gates of the fortress and leapt after him. One leap, and she had wrapped her arms around him. She was not as strong as her husband, but strong enough, and he collapsed to the ground.

"Don't," she said. "Not that way."

A mist seemed to clear from his eyes. 'For a moment," he said. "For a moment I felt…well, it is no matter. Thank you."

A short, sharp whistle from Sam brought their attention back to the rocks and crags around the haunted city. Stairs rose, almost too tall for her feet, let alone the hobbits, but she saw it, the way they were to take. She hurried toward them, just in time.

They had just begun to climb when around them came a flash of green almost brighter than the sun. For a moment only it lasted, and then, a rumble of the ground that nearly knocked them off their feet. They huddled up against the wall, clutching at stones. But the worst was to come.

In response came a cry, a cry like something damned. Low it started, with the rumble of the earth, then rising higher and higher past hearing, straight into the soul. Faile had heard of the cry of the wraith, but never heard it. She could now well believe its power of fear. She was a good Saldaean, one for whom the Eyeless held no terror. But this…her eyes went blind for a moment, and when she opened them, the gates of the city had opened, and out an army came.

She looked at the figure that led them and swallowed hard. So this was the witch-king, the one it was said no man could kill. So she thought, and so she believed. Only Gandalf, wherever he was, could hope to kill him, or the repentant Barid Bel. But even then, she knew it would be a battle without mercy.

And behind him came an army to make the world shake. Orcs and trolls and men, hundreds and thousands. Tens of thousands.

"Let us go," she said faintly. "Quickly, before someone spots us." Up they climbed, higher and higher, until the army faded to a ribbon of torchlight, and even then it came on. Faile went behind, in case they slipped, and more than once caught them. Finally they reached a landing, and Faile measured it with her eyes. Halfway, maybe.

"Take some water," she said. Frodo drank, and so did Sam.

"Did you ever think that we would be here?" Sam asked. "Caught up in the great tales?" He looked up, to where the Evening Star could still be seen through the mist. "But then, look." Faile tilted up her head.

"I never thought to be on a different world," she said. "But I see the light of Earendil, and he had a greater danger than we do."

Frodo laughed at that. "And yet he came through." He pulled the light from his pack and shook it. It lit up his face, showing his high cheekbones. "Here, where all other lights go out!"

Faile took cheer, but told Frodo to put it away. She didn't want to attract any attention, not yet. There was still the monster to consider. And so they went on, finding another stair, this one gently winding. Up and up, until all Faile knew was the bending of her knees.

Finally they reached the top. Ahead she could see the pass, cleft with a dark tunnel. There the monster lived, and there…there she would face her fear.

181818

"Uncover your light," Faile said, and Frodo did. "Spiders hate light, most of all. And if this spider is a child of Ungoliant, it will hate light even more."

"And try to take it," Frodo whispered. "Its hate will be great. This is no spider of Mirkwood, I think." He was terrified. Could he do as his uncle did? The queen of bravery was behind him, and his faithful Sam beside him, but his knees still knocked.

"Courage," Faile said. "Courage for our friends." Her voice was quiet, but almost seemed to ring with trumpets. As though responding to her, the light suddenly blazed up, bright and pure, and Frodo found himself responding. His voice rang out in Quenya, a voice from beyond the Sea.

And the dark responded. Frodo saw the genius of Faile even as his heart wanted to stop. For the creature that came squeezing through the crack in the rock was horrible beyond all words. It was a spider but more than a spider. Evil and darkness came before it, and Frodo held up the light of Earendil desperately.

"Courage," he whispered as he walked forward toward the beast. It drew back, but then shuddered and turned with a hiss. Through the haze of light he could see Faile, holding a bloody sword. The spider turned to her, and the nobility of his race awoke. Drawing Sting, he darted under the great belly and nearly gagged at the stench. Yet he held up the sword desperately as it dropped its great bulk to crush him.

The screech that came next he could never afterword describe. Suddenly there was another sword, then another. He saw Sam next to him, and Faile to his right. They looked pale, but held up their swords. In a fury, the spider tried to turn, tried to heave up its bulk, hissing all the while. But the three blades scored deep, leaving a trail of green slime.

"Out, before it crushes us," Faile panted. Slowly, they climbed out from underneath, letting it settle to the ground. Frodo's head reeled from the stench, and black spots danced before his eyes. But the spider was dying. Faile recovered first, swinging forward to cut the twisted legs, while Sam ran forward and stabbed at the great eyes. They went dark, but Faile refused to stop. "Help me cut its head," she whispered. Finally the great beast fell still and did not move. Carefully, Frodo made sure to wipe his blade clean. Then he bent forward and vomited. Sam was not far behind him, and even Faile looked pale.

Faile helped them recover. "I wanted to draw it out," she said after they had drunk a little more. "Had it confronted us in the tunnel, it would have had us at its mercy. Here we could fight before and behind."

"Good thinking, your Majesty," Sam said, sweeping a bow. Frodo also dipped his head, acknowledging her wisdom.

"Now let us into the tunnel. I don't know if it is the glow of Mordor, or lights, but we ought to get into the dark in case orcs wonder at the commotion. Frodo, if you will lead us." Frodo loved her then. She was a queen, but she still held to him as the leader of their little group.

"I will," Frodo said, walking toward the tunnel and leaving the bulk of Shelob behind. "Faile, if you will bring up the rear."

Suddenly there was a clatter of boots from below. "The orcs of Minas Morgul," Sam said. "There was a company left, I figure, and they saw our light."

"Into the tunnel, quickly," Faile said. "Put out your light." Frodo immediately did so, running light-footed toward the tunnel. Sam was just a step behind, with Faile behind him. They reached the tunnel, Frodo looking over his shoulder, as the first orcs crested the pass. They found a hollow sticky with webs, and hid there, quieting their breathing. But was it enough? For the first time since the Black Gates, he began to be tempted by the Ring.

181818

Barid Bel was suffering his own temptation. He remembered the power of Sakarnen, the torrent of Power flowing through him as he fought. What would it be like to hold the very power of a spirit?

Faramir looked at him, as though sensing his thoughts. "You already had that power. You nearly destroyed an army filled with the Light. This would merely be more of the same. You already hold great power, as great as any of the elves. Do not corrupt yourself again."

Barid Bel sighed. Faramir had a way of cutting to the heart. "I turned for jealousy of Lews Therin. I hated him with a hatred strong as the Dark itself. It is that which gave me power. Yet…here I would want to protect this city. Is that so wrong, to turn the very power of the Dark Lord against him?"

"To be sure, you would start with good intentions. Yet…in the end, it would consume you. You have been already a tyrant. Do you want to be a tyrant again, worse than my father, worse even than the heathen kings of Numenor, who worshipped Morgoth and spilled blood in his name? Would you be a tyrant again? If so, I will have to kill you here and now." His hand rested on his sword.

Barid Bel felt his anger rise, but he knew it was true. He also knew that Faramir, for all his wisdom, had an iron will and would do whatever it took to destroy him. And he wanted to live, at least to bring down his enemy. Calming himself, he spoke softly. "I have already done that. I nearly unravelled the world for him. No, what you say is true. But…if we cannot use the Ring, we may be destroyed. The forces I saw are many times what we have here." The hordes of orcs and trolls were almost as great as the host he saw at the Last Battle. Now that he was on the other side, he felt…unease.

"Better to be destroyed than to become evil," Faramir said. "Yet I do understand your desire. Let us use what tools we can."

Barid Bel nodded. The three hundred Rangers with the captain were set in place in the ruined city, waiting for an attack, bows at the ready. Boromir and he were at the front, facing the River. He held the Power, while Boromir held his sword. They were bait, but Barid Bel had seen the captain fight, and he knew his own strength. If they were bait, they were bait with teeth.

Just inside the gate of Minas Tirith, Boromir waited with the heavy cavalry. The rangers would withdraw slowly, giving ground inch by inch, and in range of the city, they would be protected both by Boromir's force and archers on the walls. If the Nazgul came, as Barid Bel thought they might, he would try to distract them in order to keep an orderly retreat. It was the best they could do with what they had.

Barid Bel had seen the enemy signal and the cry of the wraith. He grinned sourly in the darkness. Raiding was done, now it was time for open battle. He had long ago rooted fear out of himself, but he felt a thrill as he waited in the dark. The fate of this world waited on what would happen next, and he knew it well.

"I will soak the ground with orc blood," Barid Bel said. His hatred was growing, growing against the Power that destroyed all it touched. He clenched his gauntleted fist and muttered a curse from the Age of Legends as he heard the swish of oars in the darkness.

"They are here," he whispered. "They are trying to mask their movements."

He waited, his eyes straining in the darkness. Even enhanced by the Power, his ears could hear little and his eyes could see nothing. It was almost a surprise when the first orc appeared in front of him. He let it go, knowing it was part of the trap. More appeared, a long train, and he looked over at Faramir, on the other side of the ruined street. He nodded, and Barid Bel released the Power.

The earth rung like a great bell, and he watched as the ground heaved up in front of him. Orcs fell, their faces open in astonishment and terror. Another ring followed, then another, spreading out like ripples in a pool, collapsing masonry. He mentally apologized for destroying the city further, and promised himself that if he lived through the war, he would help rebuild it. Yet behind him, all was still.

The orcs behind him ran from the terror behind them…into a hail of arrows. Hundreds of them arced out of the darkness, the elite archers of Gondor doing deadly work. Barid Bel grunted sourly. As good as ancient Manetheren or better, he thought.

Ahead of him was now a pile of rubble. Underneath could be heard cries of pain. He did not know the weave to put them out of their misery, and would not have used it if he knew how. Still he did not speak, even as scrabbling was heard from the other side.

"Make them fear us," he whispered to Faramir as he mounted his horse. "If the Shadow uses fear, our terror will be the greater."

"They already crest the ruins," Faramir whispered. "Their numbers are relentless."

"I must rest. I am not the Creator." How he hated to admit it, but he knew it for truth. "And you will need my strength if the Nazgul come." Orcs were no brighter than Trollocs, but these undead…now that would be a battle.

"How soon?" Faramir asked, even as orcs crested the mound of slain and began to run toward them.

"Moments," Barid Bel said, drawing his sword. "Let us make them fear us in the meantime." Again he saw Faramir fight. He did not know who was more deadly, him or his older brother, for what Faramir lacked in strength he made up for with intelligence. Many an orc saw him leap from the shadows to strike and retreat, leaving them chittering in terror. Barid Bel could respect his talent even as he unleashed his own terror. He had been the best swordsman of his age, and his steel was a ribbon of death, cutting through the armor of the orcs as through paper. None could touch him, even as he felt his power building once more.

He nodded, and Faramir let out the call of a nightbird. That was the signal to fall back one row of buildings. He followed, hewing one last orc, and took a new position.

Slowly through the night, they fell back. Barid Bel considered himself a strong man, but he was impressed at Faramir's stamina and leadership. He was always the last behind, even motioning Barid Bel ahead of him as they slowly made their way through the ruins of the city. The slain orcs piled up behind them, and still they came, a river of death.

The sun rose as they approached the western edge. The buildings fell away, which made Barid Bel nervous. He motioned for all the rangers to draw together, and they came, huddling around him. He had used the Power again, giving them a few moments, but it was all he would spare himself. The Nazgul had still not appeared, though with the Power in him, he could feel another power, an alien force that sought to dominate and enslave. They were close, then. Close enough to appear if they wanted to.

"If the Nazgul come, I will try and deal with them. Hold together as a group and do not separate. Your greatest strength will be in numbers now. Faramir and I will cover your retreat if you will cover us with your arrows. Kill as many of them as you can, and do not fear."

Mablung, who was second, nodded. Slowly, he led the men out into the Pelennor, a tight mass, while he looked up, seeing the sky lighten toward dawn. Up in the mountains…Frodo was moving toward his destiny, even as he moved toward his.

Out of the gray, shadowy light, two specks appeared, then two more. They resolved into great beasts, like the raken of the Seanchan but far larger. And on them rode figures of fear and despair. Not to him. Not after commanding the Eyeless. Yet…he knew they would be terror for the soldiers of Gondor.

"Stay together, by the Light!" he said. "Hold, burn you, or I will use your guts for a saddle! Hold!" The wraiths began to screech, and Barid Bel did the only thing he could do. He warded the Rangers in a dome of silence, a dome that would move with him. It would not stop an open attack, but they would have descend low enough for them to be challenged. He did not smile, but he felt a bit of a thrill. Was this all Mordor would send?

181818

Azaghal walked slowly toward the great city, marveling at its size. If all of his people were to come into the city, they would not fill it. His second looked up. "The works of Men are grand beyond my sight," he said.

"That they are, but they are also in danger. Come, let us help them." He stopped as he saw a rider galloping toward them.

"The dwarves we were promised?" he said. Azaghal nodded.

"Good. I am Forlong of Lossarnach." He was a big man, almost fat, but Azaghal would not want to fight him. He sat easily on his horse, and his strength was clear to see. "I have been sent to bring you into the city."

"It looks as though there is fighting in the fields," Azaghal said, shading his eyes.

"That has already been accounted for. Boromir will ride out soon and relieve his brother." As though to punctuate his words, a bar of white light shot up into the sky toward one of the dragonlike shapes hovering there. The beast swerved with a cry that could be heard even from where he stood, suddenly cut off.

"Ah, the Nazgul," Azaghal said. "I see Mithrandir is dealing with the beasts."

"Not Mithrandir, but the wizard who can make holes in the air. Come, all will be explained soon."

So Barid Bel was here, was he? Azaghal wanted to know more about him. He followed Forlong toward the gates of the city, and was soon ensconsed within, talking to Boromir. He was surprised at some of the developments, but also pleased.

"We are here to fight," he said. "Can we not aid your brother? Perhaps make a screen while Barid Bel deals with the undead?"

"Perhaps that is wise," Boromir said. "We can ride out and give relief."

Soon it was done. Under a screen of axes and mattocks, the horses rode out, slowly, saving strength, and met Faramir in the middle of the field. "We held together well," he said, "thanks to Barid Bel. We could see the Nazgul, but could not hear them. It is something they did not expect."

Beyond them there was nothing. It was as though the Nazgul had never existed. At least there should be some sort of carcass. Barid Bel came riding up next. He did not smile, but there was a light in his eyes.

"They did not expect me. Although now we will have to be smarter. They know there is one with the power to harm them. Furthermore, they will report to…to her." The naked anger in his face, the pure hate, made Azaghal take a step back. "And she knows me, too well. We will have to think of a better plan."

"Your weapon…" Azaghal began.

"I cannot use often. It unravels…well, to use your language, it takes a note out of the Song. Too much, and the melody will begin to falter."

Faramir looked troubled, and so did Boromir. "It at least made them afraid. Though I agree. Do not use it unless you must."

Barid Bel nodded. "The orcs are regathering, moving out of the city into the fields. We should move into shelter."

To that there was no disagreement, and soon they were all behind the Great Gate. "What do you advise, Barid Bel?" Boromir asked.

"I have heard of the fighting of the dwarves," Barid Bel said. There was a note of respect in his voice as he dipped his head to Azaghal. Azaghal nodded back. "With them here, we should be better able to withstand a siege. And a siege there will be. The Rohirrim are mustering, now that the traitor is dealt with, but…they will be some days away. We must hold until they come."

"We brought our provisions," Azaghal said. "We are happy to add them to the supply. As for our fighting, we do not have bows like the elves. But should anyone try and come over the walls…" He patted his axe and grinned. "Our axes will gladly drink orc blood."

Barid Bel nodded. "As fierce as what I was told. Good. We will have the quartermaster come and take what you have, as you have agreed. Boromir? It is still your city. Where would you like the dwarves?"

"Along the walls," Boromir said. "What about the Nazgul?"

181818

Semirhage climbed the stairs of the Dark Tower towards its peak. She had been given a suite of rooms below the tallest tower, not far from the Mouth of Sauron. It was a sign of her position and favor. Yet she wanted more.

The crows she had been suing as spies had come back to her, and now she could see better the situation. It was time Sauron knew.

As was his custom, Sauron had taken the form of a giant man, as tall as an Ogier, glowing with heat and fire. Semirhage slipped into a bow.

"How goes the war?" he asked.

"Barid Bel defends the city," she said. She would not use the name he had taken as a Forsaken, for he was no longer of their number. She spat the words. "He protected others from the effects of the Nazgul, and Faramir is safely inside the city. He is smart, that one. And with Barid Bel's help…" she paused, unsure of how to proceed.

"You hate him without cause. He is merely a man."

"He was the Dark One's best general. In the war of Power, even Lews Therin was hard pressed to match him. I guarantee that he will make the war ten times more difficult. He is a master at war, and your orcs…pardon, Lord Sauron, but it is only their numbers that make them strong."

"It is true," Sauron said. "Yet I have time and so do you. A hundred years, two hundred…what are the centuries to such as us? Eventually, they will be worn down. Their fear will make us strong."

"Oh, there is fear, but Barid Bel destroying one of the Nine has lessened it. I do not think they are as afraid as what they should be. Let me whisper in their ears, let me be a spy within their ranks. Barid Bel is a clever general, but I am the Lady of Pain."

"Is that what you wish?" Sauron said. "To sow chaos? I tried to break the Steward, and so did you. Do you think you will do better now?"

"They are overwhelmed and they know it," Semirhage said. "With your armies outside and my voice inside, they will soon break. Remember, it is I who broke the Dragon himself. A few soldiers will be as nothing."

"Very well. But if you fail again…" he reached out a hand, glowing with fire. "Do not disappoint me, or we will see if you are stronger than Gollum." He smiled, and for the first time in her long existence, Semirhage felt a thread of fear. "He did not last long."

 **A/N: I am sorry, guys. There have been a lot of changes in my life, and I haven't been able to post as much as I want to. I'll try and do better and bring this story toward a worthy end.**

 **It is an open question how well balefire would work on a Ringwraith (there are no explicitly supernatural characters in Randland), or how well Semirhage will do in trying to sow chaos. I think both might be overestimating their abilities a little, but that's to be expected for characters used to throwing their weight around.**

 **As for Faile and Shelob, it is clear from the books that Sam and Frodo did well against Shelob, even unprepared and betrayed, enough even to perhaps kill her. I have no doubt that the three of them, prepared, would eventually kill the brood of Ungoliant.**

 **Barid Bel is still not sworn to the Light. He has a vendetta with Semirhage. That's not the same thing, mind you, though an argument might be made that with the Last Battle won, they could no longer communicate with the Dark One even if they wanted to.**


	16. Chapter 16- Shadows and Grief

Shadows and Grief

Perrin slowly climbed the Tower of Orthanc, seeking Gandalf's will. He knew they had to soon leave, lest the Nazgul discover them. Yet Gandalf had asked for one thing, and one thing only. If he could find it, he would. Legolas and Gimli were also with him.

A scrabbling made him look around. There was a man huddled in the corner of a passage. A man who Gimli suddenly hissed at. In one great leap, he had the man in his grip. Perrin jumped after him.

"A prisoner?" he said, not liking what he suspected.

Gimli all but growled. "No. This is Grima Wormtongue. Traitor and liar. We meet again, do we not?" His axe slipped from his belt.

Perrin felt his own anger rise. What Gimli and Legolas had told of the man had not been pleasant. A Mordeth, whispering in the king's ear. Yet…even traitors deserved the chance for a trial. He grabbed Gimli's wrist. "No. We do not murder the defenseless. We are not like the orc, Gimli, and he is still a subject of Rohan, whatever may come."

"Then the king will take his head. Move." Gimli marched the helpless man before him down the stairs and his judgment.

Legolas and Perrin went the other way, and soon entered into a great library. Perrin gasped aloud. He was no great reader, but he knew a priceless treasure when he saw it. The Great Library in Maradon would strain to match it, and Cairhien would barely exceed it.

"It could be anywhere," Perrin murmured. "We do not have time to search all."

"This would be the heart of his power," Legolas argued. "If nothing else, Saruman was a lore-master of great skill. If it is here, it will be in plain view, for he would be sure to access it." There were many tables, some with books on them, some with candlesticks, some with lamps. Treasures of gold and silver were on others. Legolas went one way, while Perrin went to the other side of the room.

He suddenly saw a small table, almost a column, insignificant among the others. But on it was a cloth covering something smooth and round. He whistled to Legolas, and the elf was there in an instant.

"Yes," he said. "Do not take off the cover. We do not want the Dark Lord to see us, if his mind is attuned as Mithrandir believes."

"I will not," Perrin promised, wrapping it tightly and sticking it safely in the bag Aragorn had given for the task. It was lighter than he expected for such a large piece, and he made light of the burden, even as he hurried down the stairs.

"Did you find it?" Gandalf asked.

Perrin slowly took out the ball and handed it to Gandalf, who in turn knelt before Aragorn. "Receive, Lord, the first part of your treasure," he said slowly. Aragorn dipped his head and took it.

"I have the right. I will take it." Perrin knew he was witnessing a historic moment. The Palantir had all been thought lost, but now one had been found. He bent his head in acknowledgement.

"Will you use it? From all I have heard, it is a dangerous tool."

Aragorn looked at Perrin. "I do not know, Perrin King. The chance may come, or it may not. Now let us do as Mithrandir suggests and leave this place."

Perrin looked around to see that all had been made ready while he was searching. Saruman and Grima were tightly bound, Saruman also gagged so that he could not speak, and held between the King's Guard, while Theoden himself stood at the head of the column. Perrin rode up to join him.

"What will you do with the prisoners?" he asked, curious as to the King's judgment.

"I will leave them at Helm's Deep in the care of Erkenbrand. They will work to restore all that they have destroyed. Until that is done, they will be constantly watched. Perhaps in time they will come to the healing Gandalf desires. I still have hope of it, even if some of my guards do not."

"They may need protection, then," Perrin said, remembering with horror the aftermath of Dumai's Wells. "Some of the guards have seen their work and will not easily forgive."

Theoden sighed. "They will obey the orders of their lord. If they do not, perhaps they will obey the orders of their king." He motioned, and with a word, the column left, riding back toward Helm's Deep and the south.

Perrin said nothing, but rode with the king, enjoying the calm after kidnap and battle. They soon left the reek of Isengard, and rode slowly south along the foot of the mountains, the towering peaks leaning up to the left, carved like knives.

"Is your wife well?" Theoden asked after a time. "I have heard it said you can walk the world of dreams."

"I can…and I have seen my wife. She is well, and the halflings with her." Seized by a sudden question, he asked. "Are Eomer and Eowyn your children? And where is your wife?"

Grief passed over Theoden's face for a moment, then faded. "My wife has been dead many years. Theodred was my only son. Eomer and Eowyn are the children of my sister, and I have adopted them as my own. When I die, Eomer will become king."

Perrin knew in some places, such adoptions happened. He himself had married into royalty, after all. He was sympathetic also to Theoden's grief. If Faile died…he did not know how he would go on. Yet Theoden had conquered all his grief to lead his people.

"Your people are proud to call you their king, and I am proud to ride beside you. Whatever Saruman and Grima spoke, do not believe it. They lied."

"I thank you for your praise, Perrin King. I too am proud to ride with you, for I have heard stories of your home and what you have faced. Your enemy sounded far worse than ours."

"Speaking of the enemy, what is your plan for the Rohirrim?"

"I will collect all the men from Helm's Deep that can ride, and I will make for the point we normally muster, Dunharrow, about a day's ride from the fortress. I have ordered heralds sent out to every province of my realm, and I expect some ten thousands will come within the week. After that, we ride for Mundburg in the South, and help those we have sworn oath to."

Perrin was also convinced that was where the stroke would fall as well, and asked about questions of strategy and how the Rohirrim might deploy themselves on the fields of battle. That discussion took up some time, and by the time it ended, they were at Helm's Deep.

181818

Aragorn walked slowly through the tents of the Rohirrim, seeking a particular one. Carefully, he held the Palantir in his hands.

"Come in," Perrin said from inside. Aragorn entered, bending low. Perrin was shorter than he, and his tent was lower to the ground. Perrin sat on his mat, quietly eating some rations and looking over his weapons.

"You have looked into the world of dreams. What did you see?"

Perrin sighed. "My wife is well. She is in Ithilien, the borders of Mordor. And Frodo and Sam were also well. They are going to...Cirith Ungol." He tested the words. "The Spider's Pass?"

Aragorn was impressed at his quick mind. Less than a year, and already he could translate between Sindarin and Westron. He was also horrified, even as he saw the reasoning of those going to Mordor.

"He could not pass the Black Gate, and so he went south. Faile is courageous and brave, and it may be enough to slay the monster in the pass. Now I know where they are, I can make my own plans. We have made a diversion with dwarves. Now we must make a diversion in Sauron's heart."

"How will we…" Perrin looked at the wrapped bundle, then up at Aragorn. "You would look?" he said with wonder.

"It is time. I will create doubt. He will see me as I am, the Heir of Isildur. He is not yet above fear, and we must use that. Will you look with me?"

Perrin hesitated only a moment. Aragorn wondered what was going through his mind. "Will it bring danger to my wife, or to the hobbits? That has always been my fear." Ah, safety for the one he loved. Aragorn could not fault him.

"No more than they have already faced. An army will march from the Black City soon or late, and with them the Witch-King. My goal, Perrin, is to as much as possible empty Mordor." It was a daring plan.

"Mat should be here. He is the gambler. Still, it is a sound plan from what I see."

"Allow me to look first, and then place your hands a moment after." He whipped off the cover, and placed his hands. At once he was flying, as though he had the wings of eagles. Below him was spread the tents of the Rohirrim, and he could see in all directions. Suddenly Perrin joined him, axe in his hand. He smiled, but only for a moment.

Then they were both swept away toward the East. The River and the hills of the Emyn Muil flashed below them, then the Mountains of Shadow. Mount Doom flew by, then a black tower, up and up to black horns and what looked like a man standing between them, if a man was tall as an ent and made of fire.

So this was the form Sauron had taken. He checked. Yes, four fingers on the right hand, as Gollum had said.

"Are you missing something?" he taunted, and Sauron's head came up.

INSOLENT FOOL. The voice was a sword attempting to slice him, a hammer attempting to crush him. HOW DARE YOU CHALLENGE MAIRON, LORD OF THE EARTH?

"I dare," Aragorn yelled, resisting the power in that voice. Whipping the sword from his scabbard, he held it up. "This is Narsil, who cut the Ring from your finger. It is reforged."

IT DOES NOT MATTER. I WILL STILL CRUSH YOU, AND TAKE WHAT IS MINE! ALL MEN WILL BOW TO ME IN THE END.

Aragorn looked in those fiery eyes and for a moment saw doubt. At that moment he struck, attempting to turn the stone to his will. He was tired, and knew his strength would not last long, but he refused to bow. Not yet. The force against him was like a mountain, as strong as any will he had ever challenged, yet he refused to surrender. He pushed against that mountain, pushing, pushing. Harder. Harder!

Suddenly, with a whisper, the mountain moved. Aragorn quickly turned it, looking to Minas Morgul. An army was marching over the cursed field, and three tiny figures were crawling up a hidden stair.

He turned his sight, looking in Ithilien and Osgiliath. The green gardens were empty, though there was a fallen king at the crossroads that now stood in honor. Down to the River he looked, and there saw Faramir with his rangers, and a tall, dark-haired man holding power in his hands. So that was where they would try and stop the attack, then. Sound, for them, to slow the advance.

He smiled, and then turned to the White City. Men manned the walls, and the defenses were strong, even stronger than when he had served Denethor's father. Dwarves marched toward the city, a proud figure at their head.

Turning again, he looked to the south, and his heart stopped. Nearly fifty black ships were beating up the river. Men, dark of face, manned the oars and sails, thousands of them. How they would be stopped, he did not know. He felt Sauron to the East, trying to drag the Stone back, but his will was stronger. He had seen all he had to see. Carefully, he withdrew.

Perrin had already withdrawn, and looked up at Aragorn. That normally strong face looked exhausted. "You had the strength," he said.

"Barely. Did you help me?"

"I did. While you spoke to Sauron, I pushed against him. I could do little!" He took a deep breath, and the color returned to his face. "Not even Slayer was so strong. It felt like pushing a whole mountain, but between us, we moved it. I think he is focused on us now."

"Oh, he is," Aragorn agreed. "Minis Tirith is naked to the storm, Perrin. That is where the stroke will fall, for there he believes dwells the new Ringlord."

"Your diversion is working. Yet I believe there is greater danger than you say."

"Yes." He would not lie to the man who becoming a friend. "The dwarves have destroyed many of the Corsair ships, yet…their main fleet comes up the river. Fifty ships and thousands of men. Sauron hopes to catch us between the hammer and the nail, it seems."

Perrin counted on his fingers. "Even if Theoden brought all the men he expects, still it would not be enough. We need more. Could we appeal to Lorien or Mirkwood? If Barid Bel is willing, perhaps he could open gateways?"

"Even if he was willing, war marches on their own lands. There is smoke over Moria, and battle in Mirkwood."

Perrin looked at him. "Then we will fight with what we have. At least I know that the Quest has continued."

Aragorn nodded, though his stomach still turned. It would be a hollow victory if Frodo and Sam returned to the West in ruins. How could he prevent it? He had made a promise, or good as, and he had to try and fulfill it.

181818

Barid Bel walked along the wall of the White City, looking over the defenses. It was good, or as good as it could possibly be. The city was ready for the siege. And the siege was coming. He could see the forces being arrayed, a river of steel turning into an ocean. Day and night, the beating of drums could be heard as trolls provided order. Siege towers dotted the landscape, and under Sauron's darkness a hundred thousand torches shone.

Faramir, Azaghal, and Boromir walked with him, along with Prince Imrahil. He had a thought he couldn't leave alone. Every army had a command. It made no sense that this one would not. Somewhere, there was a post where the leaders met. If he gated in, killed the leadership, and gated out, he could destroy the enemy's strength with one blow. He knew orcs had a violent nature, much like his Trollocs, and would not unify without strong leaders.

When he raised it with the other leaders, Boromir pursed his lips. "Orcs, yes. But do not forget that Sauron also has men allied to him. They will have their own commanders. I do not want you to be trapped."

Barid Bel nodded. "True. The Haradrim and Easterlings fight with vigor." Even ambushed, they had proved fierce. "But we are outnumbered. We have to try something to break the enemy."

Faramir shrugged. "We could attempt it. You have the spirit of the ranger and the heart of a gambler. If anyone could, it would be you. But I feel as though your true battle is not with this army. You have unfinished business to the East."

Barid Bel looked out toward the Mountains of Shadow and knew Faramir was right. Somewhere, deep in Mordor, Semirhage was preparing more horrors. Somewhere also in Mordor, two hobbits were walking toward Mount Doom. He could not forget them.

As though reading his thoughts, the Prince spoke slowly. "Barid Bel, what will your counterpart do? Will she lead men?"

"She never desired power for power's sake, but rather took pleasure from the pain of others. She will try to break the city in other ways than the sword. If I were her, I would be a spy, using the Power to appear as another."

"Would you sense it?" That from Azaghal.

"It depends. For the Mist of Mirrors, very little is required. We will simply have to be on our guard for what is out of the ordinary. If anything is ordinary in the middle of a war."

That brought chuckles from the others. "I will have to also prepare to deal with the Nazgul if necessary. They are also a danger." He steeled himself. The defense would be hard and long, and he would have to do many things to help the city. His city. Here he had respect and honor. He was not king or steward, but people listened to him and followed him.

"You should take rest. You are not as young as you used to be." Boromir clapped him on the back. "We will wake you if we need anything."

It was true. When he went to his long sleep he was several hundred years old already, in middle age for his time. He should rest, if only for several hours. Carefully, masking the action, he opened a gateway to the sixth level, where he had a small apartment. With Sauron's fume, it was hard to tell day from night, but he felt as though it was close to night. If he had someone who could deal with weather…perhaps he could clear the dark cloud. Unfortunately, weather had never been his Talent.

181818

Semirhage wanted to laugh as Demandred opened a gateway. There were twenty thousand soldiers in the city. What was one more? She had stood by when they had their discussion, with none of them being the wiser.

Well, they were aware of her tricks, at least, and now the command would come down to be watchful. She would probably not be able to stay in the city for long, but long enough to cause some chaos from within. She had to decide where to begin. A few murders in various places? It would probably have to do. With Sauron's forces approaching, she would not have time to do the sort of thing that she enjoyed. And she could not do as she had with the Seanchan Empress. These had honor…no families turned on each other.

She tried to think of a plan. All the women had been sent out of the city already except some of the healers. She could not use Lanfear's tricks. Not that she would if she could. That hussy! No. A simple killing would have to suffice.

Wrapping herself in invisibility, she began to walk, looking for a target. There were more soldiers the further down she moved, and soon, she saw two of the outland lords talking to each other. One was huge, but strong, his broad axe at his belt. That was sure to be Forlong the Fat. The other was tall, with black hair and eyes, and the grim look of one who had spent many years in danger. That would be Durlang, the Lord of the Morthlond Vale.

"I can see the forces as much as you," Forlong said to his companion. "We have always relied on the Rohirrim. Will they come?"

"I live in the shadow of the Haunted Mountain," Durlang said, "and my sons have often gone over the passes to visit their friends in the North. They will come, Forlong, if only to break the siege. Remember they are a scattered people and take time to gather."

Forlong sighed. "This is true. And with the dwarves arriving in time, we will be able to withstand until they come. I have never seen a dwarf until now, but they are strong. They carry their own weight and more, and they are fierce. Did you hear their words to Lord Boromir? 'My axe will delight to drink orc blood.'"

Durlang smiled. "Legends from out of time and space to help us. Who would have thought it? The Valar smile on us, it seems."

Semirhage cursed as a loose stone slipped underneath her foot. The two lords spun around, but her invisibility held firm.

"There should be no one out except those of our patrol," Durlang said. "I will check. Word came down that there might be a strange witch running loose. If I do not return, raise the alarm."

Forlong nodded, loosening the axe in his belt. Semirhage moved quickly, weaving two weaves at once. One lifted the axe all the way loose and through his skull, while the other took the loose stone that had nearly been her downfall and sent it straight through Durlang's body. It had happened within a blink, and both of them had not even made a sound. Quickly gathering the bodies, she sent them through a small gateway that led to the Dead Marshes. Let them add to the total! She hissed in disgust, though. If she had more time...she could gain some information.

There was a clatter, and soldiers appeared. Loosing her invisibility, she took the form of a common soldier, saluting the file leader.

"Did you see the two lords?" the file leader asked. "I thought I heard voices."

"No. I heard their voices, as you, but I have not seen them. Perhaps they are around the next bend."

The file leader moved off, taking his soldiers with them, and Semirhage nearly sighed. This was far too easy. Chaos? She would sow chaos till Sauron's lungs exploded. Taking up her disguise once more, she moved through the city toward the Great Gate, killing random soldiers as she went. She hoped to find another lord, but she did not see more.

She knew she had little time. Word would spread quickly and the hunt would be on. If Barid Bel came, he would feel her for certain, and he was stronger in the Power. Much as she hated to admit it, it was true. She would be a captive or dead, and there were no Domination Bands this time.

Moving more carefully she ran further and faster each time, until the Great Gate loomed up in front of her. Hundreds of men manned the walls, sprinkled with the smaller figures of the dwarves. It was time to go, but then she saw Azaghal himself, talking with his lieutenant. If she could capture him…but she would have to be careful. She waited until he was finished speaking and had moved off, and then…

First, a gag so he could not cry out. Then a bubble of Air so none could see where he was. She was tired from weaving so much, but she was nearly there. Nearly. Into a dark ally behind a building, then a quick gateway to the Towers of the Teeth, then another into a random mountain in Mordor itself, where she knew none from the West would dare to go, even if they could read gateways.

Azaghal was furious when she removed the gag, cursing in his own tongue and then in Westron. "Mahal take you! Do you realize what you have done? You have made the dwarves angry. Our memories are as long as our axes are sharp, and you have now made us an enemy." Oh, she had heard stories, but that was all to the good. An angry man could be manipulated. An angry race…

For the first time, she smiled. This might not be so boring after all. "They call me the Lady of Pain. But I don't think we will start with that. Perhaps some simple conversation will do well to begin."

181818

From across the stars, a single gateway opened. It was time. The Pattern had spoken, and now, it was time for him to reveal himself. Carefully, he stepped into the receiving room of the White Tower. Bowing low to the sister on duty, he spoke softly. "Tell the Mother that there is a guest to see her. Tell her that it in repayment of an old debt."

"And who shall I say has come?" the sister asked.

Straightening, he laughed. "Call me…The Man Alone," he said.

 **A/N: Semirhage is…well, creepy. But effective. I don't know if her methods will work as well on dwarves as they do on men, but if anyone could break one of the Naugrim, it would be her.**

 **I stand to be corrected, but I believe Demandred (or Barid Bel as we now know him) is one of the only ones who can read gateways and follow someone through them. The conclusion of that train of thought I will leave to my readers.**

 **As for who is The Man Alone, fans will probably easily figure out who it is. If you are not a fan…I will eventually reveal his identity. But not quite yet. I still have to leave a few mysteries open.**

 **Well, all is now ready. It is the deep breath before the plunge, when all begins to run toward its conclusion. I expect the chapters will get a little longer so I can properly cover all the battles.**


	17. Chapter 17- A whisper in the Wind

A Whisper in the Wind

Perrin walked with Aragorn toward his tent. Under his arm was a round bundle. "I can think of no one better than you to support me," the older man said as he pushed open the flaps.

"It is your birthright," Perrin responded as he carefully set down the bundle. "And perhaps with my help, you will have what you need to look in Sauron's face." He was sure of it. All they had done, all they would do, and this was but another step in their long diversion. The pieces were set. Now Aragorn had to show himself as the new Ringlord.

"You have the sword," Perrin said. "You have the stone. Soon, if all goes well, you will have a crown and the hand of the last elvish princess. Do not forget for what you fight."

Aragorn looked at him, puzzled. Perrin explained. "It is about will. I know you are strong. You ran across Rohan. But for this battle, it has to come from here." He pointed to his heart, and Aragorn nodded.

"I will touch it first, and then you will touch it after me." He twitched the cloth from the stone and placed his hands over it. Perrin followed a moment later, and found himself flying, soaring over the lands of Middle Earth as though he was an eagle. Over the Great River and past the peaks of the Emyn Muil he passed, and then the Black Gate passed beneath him. Over the blackness of Mordor he passed and then a tall tower appeared before him. Up he flew, higher and higher, and then…he saw the Dark Lord. A lidless Eye, wreathed in flame.

"I SEE YOU!" Sauron said, and his voice was that of knives, flashing and cutting. Perrin took a deep breath. Slayer had been a deadly enemy, but Slayer was still only a man. This was far stronger, but he used all that Hopper had taught him and pushed back. It was like pushing a mountain.

"DO YOU THINK TO CHALLENGE ME, MAN FROM THE STARS?" Sauron's voice was full of laughter and mockery. "ARE YOU THE ONE WHO BEARS MY PRIZE?"

Perrin found his voice. "I am but the messenger, Sauron the Accursed! I am the herald of one who would defeat you." Up came Aragorn, but the Ranger was gone. Dressed in royal robes and wearing the crown of Gondor, not seen in over a thousand years, Aragorn was transformed. In his hand, Anduril glistened with light and power.

"I AM THE MASTER OF ILLUSIONS, RANGER. THAT SWORD WAS BROKEN, AND SOON, YOUR RACE WILL BOW BENEATH MY ANGER! MINAS TIRITH WILL BURN!"

Aragorn looked strained, but his voice never wavered. "It has been reforged. Look into my eyes, if you dare! See the courage that will unite men against you! Did you think men would cower under your boot forever?"

The Eye swung to Aragorn, and released from that deadly gaze, Perrin pushed with renewed strength. The mountain moved an inch, and from the Eye came a sudden stab of fear. Perrin could still hear the words, but now the fear was plain. "FOOL! YOU CANNOT USE THAT POWER. IT IS MINE ALONE!"

"Should I master it, the Dark Tower would bow to me, and you would pass into the shadows. You know who I am, and what blood flows in my veins. You remember Luthien and Beren, Master of Treachery!"

"THEY DIED. SO WILL YOU!"

"In the end, but I do not fear death! I do not fear you!" Aragorn's voice, still strained, now held a triumphant edge. Taking his own words, Perrin pushed again. As he had for the reforging of Narsil, Perrin poured into the push all the strength and power of men, and their valour. Sauron, blind in his anger and fear, suddenly weakened, and the mountain moved, shifting wildly. The Eye cried, and suddenly the pressure was gone. The top of the Tower now stood empty in this world so much like the World of Dreams.

Aragorn reappeared. Sweat coated his face, but he looked triumphant. In his hands, he held the Palantir, and gazed into it. Only for a moment, then he disappeared. At once, Perrin also felt himself falling, and he opened his eyes to see the tent flap above him. Apparently he had fallen on his back.

A strong hand pulled his arm, and he came to his feet. Aragorn looked gray and pale, but his eyes shone with victory.

"I had the right. And the strength. Barely. And it is enough to know that Sauron is not above fear."

Perrin nodded. "I felt it. But his strength!" His bones felt like water, and Aragorn poured water for him.

"Yours was the stronger, my friend! With your aid, the Stone is now mine! He will not challenge me again, unless it is on the field of battle."

Perrin remembered the names he had been chanting. "You mocked him to his face. He did not like hearing the name of Luthien, I reckon."

"No. He did not. His anger is now great, but in his anger, I saw his plan. He will try and raze Minas Tirith to the ground. We need more men, for I also saw someone standing beside him."

"Who? Was it the Witch King?"

"Someone worse." Aragorn looked pale again. "I sensed a women, cruel beyond even the orc. She does not seek power, but pain."

"Semirhage." The word came harsh from his lips. "Of all the Forsaken, she was the worst. It was said even the others feared her."

"Will she attack openly, or in the shadows?"

"She will use pain to divide and conquer. My friend, Rand, told me a little." He shivered even at the memory of that telling. "Without lifting a weapon, she brought him, the strongest of us all, nearly into the Dark. I think it is my task to seek her out and destroy her."

"Can you face her?" Aragorn put a hand on his shoulder in a show of support.

Perrin remembered the fight with Graendal. This would be different, in a sense, but no less difficult. "I must try."

181818

Elayne strode into the courtyard of the White Tower, fear twisting a knot in her belly. Even six months after the King and Queen of Saldaea had disappeared without a trace, she had not mastered it. So far, no other ruler had been taken, but…what if it happened again?

The study of the Amyrlin was full. Pevara looked up from her desk. "You are late," she said, but with no disapproval.

Nynaeve looked over in commiseration. "It is the young ones." Her own, born soon after the disappearance, nestled at her breast.

Moiraine smiled at her, and the other nobles, nestled around the table, nodded or sent other greetings. Logain rose slowly. A wound he had taken soon after the Last Battle still pained him, but his voice was still clear.

"We are gathered here to ratify that Elayne is now the Queen of Saldaea, in light of the disappearance of Perrin and Faile. The people of Saldaea have accepted her, now let us also do so."

"Thank you, Logain," Elayne said. The new leader of the Black Tower had been a Guardian in truth, his steadfast leadership turning the Asha'man from a community of fear to one of welcome and acceptance. She took the paper handed to her and signed it, passing it to Moiraine, who as the Steward of Cairhien, also signed. Around the table the document went, last of all being signed by Logain and Pevara.

"It is done," the Amyrlin said. "I still wish they could be found, and perhaps they might. They will be missed if it proven they are dead."

Her Warder and husband, Androl, spoke softly. "The Asha'man are still searching. We have captured several Dreadlords, but they know nothing, even when put to the question."

Darlin, King of Tear, spoke quietly. "What of the Aes Sedai?"

"I speak as one bound to the Three Oaths that we have also searched and found nothing." Pevara's answer was polite, but there was strain in her words that Elayne heard. "The Light guide us all." As one, the nobles rose.

"Elayne, a moment." Logain spoke, and Elayne halted, waiting until only the two of them and the Amyrlin were left.

"Yesterday one of my men recovered Sakarnen, the sa'angreal used by Demandred in the Last Battle. I have already spoken to Pevara, and we have agreed it should be given to the Black Tower. That being said, it is the most powerful sa'angreal ever made, save for the Choedan Kal which are no more. As the most powerful ruler on this side of the Waste, I also wished for you to know."

"Do you wish for my team to study it?" One of the things that Elayne had done after the Last Battle was to set up a commission from both Towers to study all the 'angreal that had been discovered and were still being discovered, as well as those held by the White Tower. Some she had even been able to duplicate, though not many, and call boxes were now in every ruler's palace.

Logain nodded. "Yes. Perhaps it will bear fruit we cannot see yet."

181818

The man wished to be away from the White Tower, and he was. It was a slight ripple in the Pattern, and some might be able to discover where he had gone. Not many, though, at least not any from this Age. And from the Age of Legends, he was the only one left. Unless Moghedian had also lived. There were rumors of a strange damane among the Seanchan.

A problem for another time, perhaps. He was pleased, though, pleased that the Black and White Towers now worked together. It had been one of his greatest dreams, even when madness nearly had him in its grip. Perhaps a full, unified Tower might eventually be possible, as had once been.

Min smiled at him as he walked in the door. "A good trip?" she said.

"Yes." The Doomseer of the Seanchan was sometimes allowed leave, and at this time she visited him in the Blight, where he had his home. Former Blight. The soil was stony, and the black rocks were still forbidding, but Shadowspawn no longer haunted the Mountains of Dhoom, and the Worms had been driven from the Blasted Lands. He had a small plot he lovingly tended that supplied his fruits and vegetables, and he traded with a small town, a day's ride away, that supplied his other needs.

"You look tired," she said. "There are other watchers now, other guardians."

The man once known as Rand Al'Thor sighed. It was a running debate between them, and he knew she was right. However, there were still some things he liked to do himself. To tend the Pattern was one of them, and he was weary from the constant struggle to find his friends.

"Come," she said, and led him to the table, where he ate, and then to the bedroom. He was tired enough, after, that he fell asleep.

At once he knew it was no ordinary dream, for as when he fought the Dark One, he saw the Pattern, then again, larger, the Great Web, then even larger, showing all the worlds that were or could be. He was dizzy with the scope of the Creator's work, vast beyond even his comprehension. In some, there was no knowledge of the Power. In some, the Dark One took visible form and walked the land, while the Creator also took flesh and died for man's salvation. Some worlds were dead, while others had just come to be. In some, men had reached the stars, and great empires fought in space, while in others, men did not exist, and animals ran free of fear. Some held races he did not know, while in others, only plants covered barren ground.

Spinning through swirls of energy that might devour even him, he found himself coming into a world like one he had seen before, full of strange races and powers. In an instant, he saw its history, the great evils and battles that had already been fought, and one quickly approaching. In a dark land, Faile walked, two creatures that looked like short men with her. One carried the world's doom. Across mountains and a river his sight flashed. His boyhood friend walked among a field of horses, talking with a tall man who wore a star on his brow. A king?

Toward the setting sun his eyes flashed, and then past the sun, to a green land walled with mountains steep as cliffs. To the highest of these peaks his eyes flashed, and the hall that sat on the very summit. Two figures stood there, and even in his dream Rand knew he was a candle next to them. He had wrestled with the Dark One in spirit, but these…they would treat the Dark One as an annoying fly.

He bowed. "Welcome, Rand Al'Thor," the male said. "Only for a moment can I keep you here, for the veil is stretched tight. Let me say only that I and my wife are much like you- a guardian and watcher. Once, we did more. Much more. However, our time is coming to an end."

Rand swallowed. "Did you bring my friends to this place?" he asked.

"We do not have that power. Only the One could do that."

Rand now knew they were in a plan far beyond his understanding. "It is enough to know where they are. And their purpose, powers?"

"They are to help save our world from utter ruin. What the small one carries…could destroy the world if it is used to its full power. He goes to destroy it in the place where it was made."

"A dark land for heroic deeds." Rand spoke reverently. "And their return?"

The woman spoke. "Guardian, will it help or hinder you to know the future?"

Rand thought, then shook his head. He did not want to be Min, seeing pieces of the Pattern. He had never wanted that gift, not even for her.

The man spoke. "You are wise, for one so young. Now you must return. Farewell…until we meet again."

Rand was about to ask, but then he was gone, spinning and falling through an endless void. He started awake, feeling Min's arms and hearing her sleepy murmur. He lit a lantern and shook her awake. "I know where they are," he said.

Min was awake in a moment. "Where?"

As he unfolded the story, Min's eyes rose. "We don't have spirits here. We have the Power and the Dark One, who gives immortality, it is said. But…creatures that will never die…"

"I can only surmise it has different rules than our own." Rand spoke softly. "At least I know that they are safe. For now. Though Faile puts herself in danger she should not, perhaps."

"The Borderlanders are brave, and the Saldaeans more so than most." Min smiled, and it was fond. "If the Creator wishes them to fight in a war not their own, that is what they will do."

Rand agreed, remembering both Bashere, who was now dead, and Lan, who was not. "Would you like to see Lan?" he asked, the memory jogging his mind. "Nynaeve would probably like to know about this as well."

"You have kept your identity a secret for over a year," Min argued. "As far as anyone knows, you are a simple traveler who decided to make a home. No one wonders at that. Should you talk to Lan and Nynaeve…"

Rand sighed. "Very likely people will find out I am still alive. But they will still not find me. I wear another's face and my home is in a place few go."

Min still sounded uncertain. "Very well. I would like to see them, in truth. They have come to Ebou Dar at times, but I would like to see the Seven Towers rebuilt."

181818

Fortuona sat on the Crystal Throne, her eyes never leaving the faces of the nobles kneeling before her. Was there treachery? The ever faithful Selucia was at her right hand, and she wished for Darbinda on her left. Still, Darbinda had faithfully served in the bloody retaking of Seanchan, working with her husband to root out all opposition and sit her on the throne. They both deserved time off, her husband to visit her ancestral home and Darbinda to visit a cousin she had not seen in over a year.

General Galgan stood just below her, and the oaths of fealty began, with him leading. The awe generated by the Throne would lower anyone's eyes, but she had seen assassins in the shadows and felt the touch of the Dark. She still shivered at that, even if she never showed it openly.

One of the first things she had done once the Last Battle was won was root out every Darkfriend, both among her advisors and among the damane and suldam. There had been some…surprises. Especially the strange damane she had captured. A messenger had come from the Black Tower to tell who she really was. That hour, she had lost her head. Fortuona knew she would make a powerful damane, but she knew she served the Dark. Had served the dark for years on years. She could not, would not, take another chance. Not after Semirhage. Never again.

The oaths of fealty finished, she rose. Selucia rose with her, and the nobles departed. "What do we do now?" her bodyguard asked.

"We rebuild what has been destroyed. The Dark One nearly cost us the Empire. The rot that was within has now been removed. Now let us make peace with all." She spoke magnamaniously, for had not the victory been won?

"And what of what your husband says?"

Fortuona frowned. She loved him, truly. But truly, she was torn. She had not forgotten what Elayne had said. Or Egwene. Or even her great forefather, the Hawkwing himself. His conversation had been…eye-opening.

"Can I…can I destroy the foundation of the Empire? Will it be the Empire without the leashing of those who can channel?"

"You will still have the Seekers and the Ever Victorious Army. Other nations, other rulers, do without this, and have survived even the Last Battle. Your people know you, and love you."

Fortuona sighed. Selucia was right, and she knew it to her bones, but she feared another rebellion so soon after reuniting her empire. Whole regions were now near wastelands, so brutal the war had been. And the people still loved her. Even now, for she strove for order and justice, and the abuses of the rebels had been stopped. But would that love last if she overturned a thousand years of culture?

"I will consult the omens. When Darbinda returns, we will see what the Pattern reveals."

General Galgan, who had remained, sighed. "You know I have served you faithfully, Highness, but…I am weary of war. I never thought I would see so much bloodshed." He indeed looked weary. He was growing older, and lines hung under his eyes. "I own no damane myself, as you know, but…they are our history. Can history be changed? Should it be?"

To that, Fortuona had no answer.

 **A/N: I am sorry for leaving you! It has been an extremely busy few months, and I also had to take some time to clear my head. I decided to show what was happening back in Randland as I work to gather all the threads together for the big finish.**

 **I believe if Cadsuane does not want to be Amyrlin, she doesn't have to. Pevara would be better for the post, anyway, at least in my opinion (Cadsuane is an Amyrlin for war, but I believe Pevara is the Amyrlin for peace). Logain remains the leader of the Black Tower as in canon.**

 **I decided to take the multiverse theory in part and pretend that all possible fictional universes actually exist somewhere. You can see some of the worlds I mention in passing.**

 **Whether Fortuona decides to follow her better nature or not will have a big ripple effect. I skipped over the war for the sake of the plot, but I will probably give some of Mat's thoughts somewhere down the line.**


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